


Hermione Granger and the Flower of the Court

by danidangerbear



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deviates From Canon, F/F, Femslash, Forbidden Love, Love Confessions, Mates, Not Canon Compliant, Plot, Post-War, Relationship(s), Sensuality, Sexual Content, Tragic Romance, Veela, Veela Mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-22 05:59:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15575292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danidangerbear/pseuds/danidangerbear
Summary: Hermione is on her way to Versailles, France. Little does she know her life will forever change when a mysterious french woman pulls her away in desperate need of help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this on fanfiction.net but was told that I should also post it here. This fic is written under the assumption that Hermione graduated from Hogwarts and Fleur never came to Hogwarts for the triwizard tournament. Fleur also never married Bill Weasley and was basically non-existant in the time Hermione attended Hogwarts. All other aspects of the stories remain true, only Fleur's role in the original story should be replaced by some other woman who Bill married and who tended to the trio at Shell cottage. Fleur is a complete stranger for the sake if this story. I apologize in advance for changing the original plot line so drastically. I was just trying not to write the same plotlines that keeps dominating the fanfics written for this pairing. I had to change some stuff up in order to accomplish that. Also, feel free to correct my French. Translations will be listed at the end of each chapter. Disclaimer: It's not mine. I don't make any money doing it.

**Chapter 1**

The train roared on. Currently on its way to Paris. The ultimate destination, Versailles.

Hermione Granger was aboard this train on her way to a convention. She was in her last year of her residency at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Her attending healer had sent her on a trip to a convention being held in Versailles; thinking it would help her to network more with the mediwitch and mediwizard community as her residency was quickly coming to an end.

She very well could have apparated or flown on her broom or perhaps even travelled via floo powder; not to mention there was a portkey specifically enchanted for travel to and from the convention. However, she settled for a muggle train ride out of London. Most muggle-born witches and wizards would have only chosen to take the train over some other magical form of transportation for the sentimentality or to feel the familiarity of the connection they have with a part muggle life. This, however, was not the reason Hermione chose to take the train.

Hermione loved to read. A muggle train ride from London to Versailles took roughly 3 hours and 30 minutes. Which afforded Hermione 3 hours and 30 minutes of quality reading time. And it was for this simple reason she often chose the longer more arduous route when traveling to any set destination. Luckily, muggles were masters at making everything about their day-to-day lifestyles as difficult and chastening as possible-including their commutes. She would have been grateful to muggles, in that moment, had she not been so enraptured in a new book recommended highly by one of her fellow residents at St. Mungo's.

But that is not the only reason she opted to take the train. If Hermione Granger were completely honest, she would willingly admit to not being overall enthused about the convention she was headed to. It was one of the last things she needed in order to complete her residency in pursuance of her Healer certification. That was the only significance it really held. Just another boring, stuffy convention full of witches and wizards who believed that their methods were superior to their fellow colleagues'. Nothing she hadn't heard before. Nothing she hadn't studied before. Merely a requirement placed upon her by her attending healer—of whom probably sent her in his place because he himself did not want to attend.

And if she were being even more honest, healing wasn't necessarily the profession she had originally anticipated going in to when first making her way into the wizarding workforce. Her muggle parents were both in the medical field. And while magical medicine and muggle medicine are vastly different in comparison, they still had some expectation that their daughter also practice, one way or another, in the medical field. That's not to say they pushed her to be where she is today. In a way that was as natural as these things can be, their influence served more as a guide for Hermione to follow in their career-based footsteps. She was very much capable of making her own decision as soon as she came of age. That's also not to say that she wasn't satisfied with the career choice she made. She had spent a lot of time deciding what she wanted to do after her tenure at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was the hardest decision she'd ever had to make, as Hermione was very indecisive when it came to what it was she truly wanted to do. For the most part she knew that she wanted to do something that would have an impact. That would help people and leave a unique imprint on both the wizarding and muggle worlds respectively. She settled for the medical field after recognizing the weight of her parents expectations and desires for her future. That, and she had been running out of time to make her decision. It was the most logical choice.

So not only did the train give her 3 hours and 30 minutes of quality reading time, it also spared her 3 hours and 30 minutes of time spent at that boring, stuffy convention about things that didn't truly peak her utmost interest. For now, she didn't think too much into it. She just sat and enjoyed what little time she had to herself after having spent months running around a hospital and tending to every patient's needs.

The train came to a halt. Stopping in Paris between London and Versailles. She looked up momentarily if only to verify that she hadn't yet reached the terminus. Noticing that she hadn't missed her stop, she turned her nose back down to her book and continued reading; flipping through casually as she finished a page. Her brows were turned down in concentration.

The doors to the train opened, screeching in pain from their overuse and lack of care. Jostling footsteps echoed through the train car; the final signal that people were boarding and deboarding at a regular interval.

Unexpectedly, a hand slapped against the wall next to one of the doors on the farthest side of the train cart. The sound startled Hermione enough to procure her unwavering attention. The hand belonged to a young woman who was gasping for breath as if she had been running for miles, frantically calling out to everyone on the train, "Y a t-il un docteur par ici? Est-ce que quelqu'un est un docteur?”

Hermione's first thought upon seeing the overwrought young French woman was that she was absolutely breathtakingly beautiful. The kind of person you see in a magazine or in a position of power that constantly commands attention in one form or another. Her blond hair hung loosely around her shoulders; feathery in its graceful prominence. Her crystal blue eyes piercing as they made contact with each and every passenger on the train as she continued asking in a panic that built every moment that passed without a response, "Est-ce que quelqu'un est un docteur?"

The french woman came down the row asking this same question to each person. She received no response nor so much as the slightest acknowledgement to her pleas. When the blond woman finally got to Hermione, shock reverberated throughout the brunette's body at having been at the very direct receiving end of the authoritative glint hidden in those eyes. They invoked feelings in Hermione that she didn't think appropriate to feel for a complete stranger such as loyalty and compliance and an affection that was far too intense for someone she hadn't even officially met yet.

The young French woman asked the soon-to-be-mediwitch very pointedly, "Etes-vous un docteur?"

Hermione could only stare at the young woman rather dumbfoundedly. Her knowledge of French was limited to simple key phrases such as 'where is the bathroom' and 'I'm hungry.' With context clues, she could only guess that the young woman was saying something in regard to a Doctor. And the way in which she spoke indicated it was a question; and she expected an answer.

Hermione's head shook back and forth of its own accord. Her mouth hung open as if to say something but she became so overwhelmed with this newfound muteness, she found she was unable to produce any intelligible words. She maintained eye contact with the blonde and shrugged, unsure of how else to respond given the obvious language barrier. Noticing the brunette's confusion and what seemed to be her desire to want to help, the young woman tried once more, "Parlez-vous français?"

Hermione understood this question and responded, not at all confident in her answer or ability to speak the foreign language, "Un peu?"

"Do you speak anglais?" The French woman questioned, this time in English, stepping closer to the brunette as she spoke.

The brunette took a deep breath to calm her rapid firing nerves.

"Yes, I speak English," Hermione replied. Her shoulders dropped, releasing the tension held there. She was relieved that she no longer had to guess what the woman was saying, so that she might actually have any hope at helping her. Because Hermione had the strong urge to help this woman in any way she could and at any cost.

"Are you a docteure?" The woman questioned.

Hermione didn't hesitate to respond, "Yes."

This hadn't been entirely true. She was still in the process of getting her medical license. Not that the young woman before her would mind one way or another given her visibly outward display of exigency. Hermione conceded that this fact was neither here nor there and stood firmly by her previous, most impulsive response; even if it went against her better judgement.

"S'il vous plaît, you must come with me. I am in desperate need of your 'elp," the young blond said so suddenly it almost startled Hermione. And though it was still unnerved, the woman's French accent floated airily around the English girl's head making her feel equally as light as the words that were spoken so gracefully to her.

There was, though, a noticeable lack of inquiry in the French woman's tone. And it was amusing to Hermione that this young woman thought that, just by giving her a simple order, she would get what she wanted. It was even more amusing to Hermione that she found herself packing up her things and following the blond woman off the train so easily; no questions asked.

The blue-eyed beauty held tightly to the brunette's hand dragging her out into the darkened evening away from the train station. The hand holding Hermione's was hot and clammy. Which the English witch found odd because it was the middle of a colder-than-usual winter in northern France. A sure sign of her distress, Hermione thought to herself. Not to mention the French woman was wearing a short sundress and a jacket that hardly counted as a winter coat. She had to be freezing. The oddity of which successfully distracted the future healer longer than it truly should have.

"Where are we going?" The brunette questioned after she had finally had enough of being dragged-albeit willingly-through the streets of Paris. She was almost out of breath from how quickly they had been walking.

The young French woman did not respond. Hermione figured she would try again, "Where are we going?" She questioned a little more forcefully. Though she couldn't find it in herself to pull herself away physically from her captor. She could have if she had wanted to. The blue-eyed beauty was not gripping her hand that tightly. It was more a question of will she. The needed conviction for such a feet was lost on her.

Suddenly, the blond stopped abruptly and turned to face Hermione. Their faces were so close, the English witch could feel the warm puffs of air from the woman's rapid breathing lightly patting her cheek.

They were in a dark alleyway. There was no sign of muggle, wizard, or magical creature life. Hermione's heart began to beat faster. Panic started to well inside her at the thought of being dragged to a dark, scary alleyway alone with a person she did not know. The young woman pulled Hermione closer to her. Her arms wrapped delicately around the shorter girl's waist. Their bodies instantly came together and touched. As soon as the panic had settled, it was gone. Or at the very least it was calmed to a point where she did not feel likely to act upon it. She did not think too much of it. After all, her unbound curiosity was infamously known to guide her in the many adventures she'd experienced thus far in her life. It would not be a surprise for it to guide her in this new adventure of which she knew she was about to partake as well. She was not a weak person. She could handle herself if something didn't happen in a way that was agreeable to her.

"'Old onto me," the blond ordered softly. Each word lightly tickled at Hermione's cheek. "Do not let go," the blond continued.

Before Hermione could even so much as think her next thought, everything went black. In the next instant, they were standing in a hallway outside a bedroom in what appeared to be a grandiose apartment. The brunette's stomach flipped. She felt dizzy and as if she were about to lose herself all over the floor of their newest destination. Hermione shook her head and steadied herself. After the effects began to slowly wear off, she recognized what had just happened. There was only one explanation. They had apparated; disappeared from some alleyway in Paris and reappeared to Merlin only knows where. And it was the strange French woman that had cast the spell that brought them there.

Hermione's eyes grew wide. This was not a regular woman. This was a witch. A witch that she did not know in a world still full of war and hardships. A world with groups of witches, wizards, and creatures that were highly opposed to the outcome of those wars. And she herself was a renowned fighter—a leader—in those numerous wars against numerous terroristic groups in the wizarding world. She knew far better than to trust anyone. Hermione Granger would not die today. She would not die until she was good and ready to. She clutched tightly to her bag, ready to move for her wand if necessary. The blond noticed the English Witch's discomfort and suspicion at the revelation of her magical ability.

"You are a witch, non?" She questioned hushedly. One finely shaped eyebrow arched high on her forehead. She already knew the answer to the question. Hermione relaxed only slightly under the blond's strong gaze. She knew that if the blond had wanted her dead she would have killed her already, having had multiple opportunities to do so. This knowledge alone was enough to calm her fears but not enough to quell her salacious curiosity.

"Well, yes-I-I mean, I am... but I-I don't know how you would even know-" The French witch did not let her finish her ramblings. She was much too concerned with the task at hand.

"Come," she spoke. Pulling Hermione by the hand once more. And once more, the brunette easily followed without question.

The door to a room at the end of the hallway opened and they walked in. Just as soon as they had entered the room, the door snapped back shut behind them. Hermione looked back at it quizzically, not expecting it to do that. Forgetting, momentarily, that this kind of thing happened in a wizarding household all the time for a number of different reasons; this was most likely an enchantment or something to that effect.

"Gabrielle? C'est moi. Je suis là. J'ai amené quelqu'un pour t'aider," the french witch spoke softly to a lump of sheets that was practically lifeless on the bed.

After a few silent moments, when the blond realized that she wasn't going to get a response from the lump, she turned to Hermione. Worry was strewn across her pretty features.

"Can you 'elp 'er?" She asked. When Hermione didn't respond immediately, the blond continued, "Please, 'elp 'er."

Instantly, Hermione's medical instincts kicked in. She rushed to the bedside of the girl known as Gabrielle. She instinctively went through every medical procedure she knew: 1) checking the girl's pulse for a heartbeat, 2) checking the girl's head for a fever, 3) testing reflexes, 4) checking response times in the girl's eyes. When all of these completed procedures signified that the girl was still alive and that there was still hope for her recovery, Hermione turned to the blue-eyed beauty quickly.

"I can help her. But I need to know what happened," Hermione spoke hurriedly yet firmly, knowing that time was in short supply, "Every detail of what happened."

The French witch, understanding the direness of the situation, cupped a hand to Gabrielle's forehead, watching the sickly girl intently as she spoke to Hermione, "We were in a dual. A spell was misfired at Gabrielle and sent 'er flying into a metal shard. I removed the shard and apparated 'ere. I tried to 'eal 'er myself but she 'as not gotten any better. Then, when I noticed that she was getting worse, that is when I apparated to the train station and found you." The French woman did very well remaining calm as she explained the story in the presence of a companion she badly wished to save.

Hermione, however, was not as calm. The adrenaline had kicked in and she knew she needed to act fast.

"How long has she been like this?" The brunette asked.

"I am..not sure. A few 'ours perhaps," the blond responded willing to give any information she could that might serve to help Gabrielle.

Hermione knew what she needed to do.

"I'm going to have to cut into your friend and perform surgery," she said very resolutely to the blond, determined to maintain eye contact as if doing so would transfer the gravity of the situation between them, "I suspect that when you removed the shard from her body, you may have done so in a way that punctured an internal organ and is now causing it to fail; and I don't have the proper potions or medical equipment with me to be able to take care of her in the way she needs. So I'm going to have to cut her open and heal her myself."

The French woman nodded in approval of Hermione's words, granting full sanction to whatever the English witch wished to happen as long as it would save Gabrielle. She had tried to save Garbielle and she had failed. She understood the direness of this situation and did not want to do anything to get in Hermione's way.

The English witch grabbed her wand from her bag and removed the covers from the sick girl's body almost in one smooth motion, as if this were an art of hers practiced once too many times over. It wasn't difficult to find the area that she needed to cut into. Blood soaked the sheets and the clothing that Gabrielle was wearing in the spot where the wound had been inflicted even if the wound itself was no longer there.

Hermione took a steadying breath. First, she cast a spell to cut through the girl's shirt. Then, she used a different spell to cut into where the wound had been inflicted on the girl's body. Gabrielle gasped in pain, the only visible sign that she was living and still responsive.

"Gabrielle!" The French witch called out to her companion. She held the sick girl's face gently in her hands as she turned to Hermione, "Please, is there anything you can do so that she will not feel the pain?"

"There is no time. I have to do this now or she might not make it," Hermione said firmly, so that the french witch would understand that Gabrielle's pain was secondary to her living.

The blond did not object any further. Against her better judgement, she trusted that Hermione would do everything within her power to help the girl. The brunette witch had that countenance about her that strongly indicated her will was good and her intentions fair. The blond knew she was useless in this aspect. She had nothing more to contribute and in some ways had further escalated Gabrielle's fragile condition. She continued to whisper French nothings into Gabrielle's ears; a last ditch effort to sooth her in her time of pain.

Hermione didn't waste anymore time. She plunged her hand into the open wound that she had created. She did her best to block out the sounds of French mutterings and the cries of pain that ensued. And instead she focused her magic on finding the damaged organ inside the girl. Her eyes were furrowed in concentration. An old familiar feeling danced around the back of her mind behind her closed eyes. She had previously compared the sensation to what she could only imagine echolocation felt like. Her magic being the waves that bounced off each surface in the girl's body lending her a new sense of sight she would not have been able to have otherwise. After a moment more of probing, she finally found the offending organ and gripped it in her hand. She then began to chant a healing spell she learned from watching madame pomphrey late in her fourth year at Hogwarts. After only seeing it performed a handful of times, she had remembered it and practiced it over and over until it became almost second nature to her. She had thought it would be useful to know back in those days when Harry, Ron, and herself were always having misadventures and coming home broken or wounded. She had wanted to prevent them from going to the old woman so often. Luckily it wasn't an incantation easily forgotten.

Once she felt the organ was fully healed, she immediately removed her hand from Gabrielle's body and magically sutured the wound back together. Then she went to her bag and dug around for one potion she knew she had. She had learned to craft something only relatively similar in theory during her residency and had been improving upon the formula. It was a potion that would restore the rate at which blood cells regenerated. This made blood coagulate faster so that there wouldn't be a need for a transfusion. The patient was able to regenerate their own blood at a faster rate than normal on their own. She had planned to show it off at the convention-her first true contribution to the medical world.

Once she found the potion in her bag, she brought it over to Gabrielle's frail, chapped lips.

"I need you to help me give her this potion," Hermione said to the French witch. The blond complied and gently attempted to open the girl's mouth.

The brunette slowly poured the potion down Gabrielle's throat, being careful not to drown her or make her any more uncomfortable than she already was. Hermione only gave her half of the potion, estimating that anymore than that could cause complications. She didn't want the girl's blood overproducing. It was better to give her less and monitor her recovery over time in small doses.

After the potion was given, they all fell into a very deep, comfortable silence. Gabrielle had fallen asleep due to overexertion of what little energy she had left. But she was still very much alive and stabilizing at a much better rate than in the state when Hermione had first found her. This was more than good for the time being as far as the brunette was concerned. She couldn't, however, speak on behalf of her blond counterpart. Who still seemed just as worried as when she captured Hermione on the train and brought her here. The French witch remained hunched over the recuperating girl. Nimble fingers idly played with the girl's hair. A slight frown seemed to be permanently plastered to the woman's lips as if she never intended to smile again. Not that Hermione had even seen her smile. At this point she had seen so much discontent in the blond's features she couldn't even picture what the woman's smile might even look like if she did. The brunette started to lift her hand as if she could offer the blond comfort through something as simple as a gentle hand to the shoulder. But quickly rethought the gesture and sat back in her chair, running a shaky, tired hand through her hair.

Both women patiently waited Gabrielle's recovery. Once again, the blond witch stared at the healing girl as she spoke to Hermione, not willing to take her eyes off Gabrielle for even a moment as if that aided the healing process, "Thank you."

There was not more that Hermione felt that she could say other than a quiet but sincere, "You're most welcome."

Translations:

1) Y a t-il un docteur par ici? Est-ce que quelqu'un est un docteur? - Is anyone here a doctor? Is anyone here a doctor?

2) Etes-vous un docteur? -Are you a doctor?

3) Parlez-vous français - Do you speak French?

4) Un peu - A little

5) C’est moi, je suis là. J'ai amené quelqu'un pour t'aider - It's me. I'm here. I've brought someone to help you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any mistakes (whether in French or English). Feel free to let me know if you find any along the way. Also I apologize if at any point my writing seems rushed or monotonous. I am trying to say what I mean in fewer words and it has been a real challange.
> 
> Disclaimer: It's not mine. I don't own it. I don't make any money from it.

**Chapter 2**

Normally stars were not visible from the city. The lights from the buildings and street lamps were well known to wash out any and all resplendence the sky might offer when the day had faded into darkness. But this night was the most glorious exception. More stars than usual were clearly visible in the heavens above and they twinkled brightly down on the town below, blanketing it in a warmth and serenity not often found there. They shined in alongside the moonlight through a set of big beautiful bay windows. The playful twinkling glints were enough to tease Hermione awake from sleep. She had drifted off sometime in the evening after she was sure Gabrielle had stabilized enough that she felt she could finally rest; or at least enough that she felt it wasn't necessary to keep a constant eye on the girl. She wiped what little sleep had gathered at her eyes and checked her watch.

The screen flashed a brilliant but solid 12 am. She had definitely missed her train and the next. She hadn't the faintest clue when the next one would be leaving for Versailles. But she knew she needed to be on it.

Hermione looked over at the two blonds from across the room. She wondered how much longer she would be needed now that Gabrielle had stabilized. It was then the remaining pieces came together as to why it was she had missed her train in the first place. That mysterious French witch had practically dragged her off in need of help, apparated them to some unknown place, and pleaded with her to heal a mortally wounded girl on the cusp of death. Hermione felt her role was played out sufficiently. She had done her part and helped this strange woman; not to mention she had done so at no cost to them. She didn't really want anything in return except for the freedom to leave now that her duty as a healer was done.

The French witch was leaning over heavily on the bed, leaving a solid imprint in the mattress beneath her where it had been holding her weight. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, still sitting by the other blond's side, gently rubbing the girl's thumb with her own. Hermione didn't want to be rude. She was fully accustomed to sick people and their families from her time at the hospital and fully understood how these types of sensitive matters needed to play out. When a person is in recovery, it is unbelievably common for their loved ones to lose touch with reality as they patiently wait through the healing process. That is what was happening here. And the brunette did not want to interrupt that moment, knowing it meant a lot to the restoration of the French witch's dwindling sanity. But she also knew her time and expertise were no longer needed. And while she respected the moment the two blonds were sharing between one another, she did not wish to extend this stay any farther than she had to.

Hermione ran through each of her routine medical checks, in attempt to once again gain the French witch's attention. A poorly timed reminder that she was still there and her job was done. Nevertheless, the blond did not give her so much as a glance.

"She seems to be recovering really well," the brunette spoke softly. So softly, she wondered if the French witch had even heard her. She cleared the gentleness from her throat, "There's...nothing else I can do for her really. Only time will finish the healing process." Her words were a little louder this time. Hardened in the hope that it might do better to grab the woman's attention.

After a few minutes more of tortuous silence, the French witch finally tore her gaze away from Gabrielle. The eyes that found Hermione's in a dull and almost lifeless stare were not as vibrant of a blue as they were the first time they had probed the brunette's very soul with their torrid gaze. There were rings and bags under them that indicated she was fighting a losing battle with the sleep she'd already lost. The blond took in a deep, shaky breath. Her eyes widened. She exhaled harshly as if it would expel the exhaustion she felt out from her body along with the breath.

"Come," the words were light and soft as she stood from her place beside Gabrielle, "we must get you something to eat."

With that said, she walked out the door.

Not quite sure what to do and rather surprised by the abrupt command, Hermione stood up and followed the French witch, being sure to grab her bag on the way out. A newfound determination welled up inside her. She did not want to return to this room. She did not want to get sucked in to yet another task that might deter her from leaving.

She followed the blond down the hall and into a little breakfast nook that sat across from an abnormally large kitchen. The minute she got there, the blond began casting spells left and right. The pots, pans, and cooking utensils promptly set about working away to create some unknown meal of their own fruition.

"'Ave a seat," the blond commanded softly. Hermione was only slightly rattled at how easy it was this time for her to give in to the woman's orders. She wasn't sure why she was sitting. She really felt it would be better for everyone if she left. The convention had long since began and she had already missed one evening. She didn't want to miss the morning or any of the other subsequent events. Her attending healer would be terribly upset to know she hadn't attended and she couldn't let something as trivial as eating just because some stranger willed it to be stop her from getting her healer's license. She thought she had been forward enough with the woman earlier in stating her desire to leave. But it was obvious the message didn't quite get through.

"Look, as I said before, I've done everything I can for your friend. There really is nothing more I can do here. And if I am no longer needed, then I'm not sure why I am being made to stay," Hermione asserted, hoping this time the French woman would not shrug her off or change the topic.

The blond ignored her completely. She zipped about the kitchen casting spells and assuring the food was properly tended to. Hermione's shoulders tensed. Her hand tightened around the bag she had been holding. This woman had done a right job of remaining mysterious since the very moment they met. She hadn't answered any of Hermione's questions. In fact, she had barely spoken to the brunette at all aside from the occasional order thrown around mercilessly here and there as if she were speaking to some enslaved house elf. Hermione was beyond frustrated. All she wanted were answers. And there wasn't anything she could do to force the woman to give them to her. Which only served to frustrate her even further.

"Why won't you answer any of my questions? I've been nothing but kind and helpful to you and I don't even know who you are, where I am, or when I'll be allowed to leave. I don't even know your bloody name for Merlin's sake," She snapped with a breathy hint of anger. She released hold of her bag to cross her arms across her chest.

Hermione would have never guessed that something as simple as throwing a small tantrum would be the one thing that ultimately garnered the French witch's attention. But it was. And it did. The blond wrapped up whatever it was she was attending to and moved to sit in the chair directly across from Hermione. She stared long and hard at the brunette, testing the unwavering confidence Hermione had come to find in the last few minutes.

"Fleur. Fleur Delacour. And that girl upstairs that you saved is my sister, Gabrielle," her answer was direct and short. She wore a mask of fortitude that covered any emotion that might accidentally appear on her face.

The longer that Hermione gazed into Fleur's eyes, the funnier she started to feel. As if wave after wave of some unknown entity were weighing heavily down on her very being. Little by little, the room around her began to tunnel inwards. The only light at the end of that tunnel was Fleur, who sat there before her with an almost smoky halo of light surrounding her. Everything was fuzzy. Her mind became absolute mush. She could no longer think in coherent sentences. Her heart was beating at the pace of a thousand racehorses, but she could not tell if it was because of this strange light airy feeling that had suddenly overcome her or if it was the fear it had evoked. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear Fleur's voice echoing, but her mouth didn't seem to be moving at the same speed as the words that were spoken.

"Now...tell me, Docteure... Comment vous appelez-vous—what is your name?"

Hermione could hear the words but she did not register the question. The glow blanketing Fleur was so very captivating. The brunette was undeniably entranced. How could she not be. The French witch was so wonderful, so exquisite, so enchanting, so...

"Beautiful," Hermione sighed. It wasn't meant as a response; though it was most undoubtedly taken as one. Fleur chuckled, amused by the haphazard declaration.

"Mmm," the hum emanating from Fleur's body sent chills down Hermione's spine, "Okay then, Docteure Belle...Let's just take a look and see who you really are," she said, that same amusement present in her tone.

Fleur reached for Hermione's bag that sat forgotten at her side. She picked it up and rifled through the numerous knick knacks inside before honing in on a wallet. Inside that wallet she found a muggle driver's license with the English girl's name emblazoned across the top.

"'Ermione Granger," Fleur read out loud.

At the sound of her name falling so bewitchingly from the blond's lips, Hermione slowly began to stand with an intense desire to be even closer to the French witch. She tried to move her legs forward but her knees gave out and she collapsed. She was caught at the last second by soft, nimble hands. The feeling of those hands touching her bare skin ignited something almost dangerous within Hermione. Her flesh felt as if the topmost layer was burning from her body in such a way that it would never know another's touch aside from the hands that were currently setting her aflame. Fleur chuckled again and stroked the side of Hermione's face lovingly, tucking a stray curl behind the girl's ear.

"Now tell me," she said, "Where were you going when I intercepted you on the train?"

Hermione tried very hard to concentrate on what the blond was saying, but couldn't in the midst of the thick film that now fully coated every corner of her mind. The brunette closed her eyes and nuzzled her face further into Fleur's touch, reveling in the fire that burned at her cheek where the blond's hand rested. The French witch's heavy sigh was long and audible. But Hermione wasn't in any state to recognize the mild frustration it held. She inched even closer to the woman, seeking more contact.

After a moment, the fogginess in her mind dissipated though only slightly. Enough so that at the very least she could coordinate her thoughts and understand what the blond was asking.

"I will ask again, mon bijou. Where were you going when I intercepted you on the train?" Fleur spoke again. Her forehead rested tenderly against Hermione's.

With her eyes still closed, the brunette grabbed Fleur's hand at her cheek. She squeezed it unflinchingly as if doing so would stabilize her trembling body and took a deep breath. In that breath she inhaled all that was the French enchantress before her.

"I was on my way to a medical convention. I was trying to complete my residency," the words came out languidly as if she were drunken or intoxicated. She could hear them coming from her mouth, but they sounded so foreign as if they weren't her own. They floated around the air strangely as inaccessible to her as the cloudiness in her head or the desire she felt to be so near the blond witch.

Fleur hummed in contentment, satisfied with the answer.

"Do you 'ave a boyfriend?" She continued to ask, toeing the line of appropriateness.

The brunette had been rendered helpless by whatever it was that had come over her, but she was not completely dim. Given the playfulness of the previous question, she knew somewhere deep down inside that the blond had purposely changed the tone of this conversation. This was now a game. And Hermione did not have the ability to tell Fleur she was not interested in playing.

"No," Hermione countered through the fog that was progressively getting thicker in her mind.

"Do you 'ave a girlfriend?"

A shot of something indescribably wonderful spiked through Hermione's body and will go down in history as one of the single-most erotic feelings she had ever experienced. It caused her reply to come in the form of a gasp, "No."

She was now leaning as close as she could to the French witch, supporting her own weight on the arms of the chair in which the blond sat. Her face drew nearer to the woman's so that her nose brushed along the line of Fleur's cheek. But the blond was not finished questioning her. She was not done playing her game. She pulled Hermione down closer so that her lips lightly touched the English girl's ear.

"'Ave you ever 'ad a girlfriend?"

The whispered words sent chills down Hermione's back.

"Yes," she hissed, her lips barely grazing Fleur's neck. And even though it was the slightest of contact, it sent even more shivers in massive waves throughout her entire body.

Hermione was so caught up in the feeling of her lips against the French witch's skin, that she hardly heard the faint coo of a voice coming from down the hall. The blond, however, did and stood instantly at the sound.

"J'arrive, Gabrielle!" She called out distractedly. Hermione fell forward into the empty chair, her head hitting the back of it with a palpable thud.

The French witch was gone in an instant, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway. And the longer she was gone, Hermione's mind was able to finally clear. Any and all of the obscurities inside her gradually withered away into nothingness. She raised a shaky hand to her forehead and shook her head of the remnants of its treacherous effects. After a second or two more of being alone, she felt relatively normal again. She was understandably confused, but that seemed inarguably better than not being in control of herself like she had been only mere moments ago. She did not understand what had just happened to her. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced. It was like she had been standing in an ocean amongst the tide that was constantly rising and falling. One second a wave would come in and fully surround her body. And the next it washed away back out to sea. It was like that feeling of ethereality after no longer being submerged in a tidal wave. She felt light. She felt free. But she also felt like she was being pulled out to sea as if the water's encompassment of her at one point in time had somehow made the two connected as one. But the sea was full of only water. And there was only so long she could continue to swim. She tensed at the thought of drowning.

Hermione looked down the blackened hallway. A faint light could be seen peeping through the darkness. She had every right to know what it was that had just happened to her. And she had the sneaking suspicion that Fleur was in some way responsible. She just wasn't sure how exactly. But Hermione Jean Granger was sure as shit going to find out. She grabbed her wand out of her bag and headed off down the hallway in the direction that the blond had went.

The door to Gabrielle's room was cracked open and through it she could hear two voices speaking to each other in rapid French. Hermione didn't even think to listen in to the conversation, knowing it wouldn't do her any good considering the fact that she didn't speak the language. So she barged in instead effectively interrupting what appeared to be a rather serious conversation. The minute she made herself known, four beautiful blue eyes snapped to the brunette's haggard frame in the doorway.

"What just happened to me, Fleur?" Hermione exclaimed. She felt safer at her place in the doorway and made no attempt to move; raising her wand to both of them. She was so unsure of their motives. All it would take was one wrong move and that would be enough to discharge the first of a long list of spells flying off her lips.

Fleur stood up from her place beside her sister, very delicately raising her hands in the air in order to give bearing to her show of complaisance.

"It is okay, 'Ermione," she said, sweetness oozing through her spoken words.

A relatively newfound feeling crept back over Hermione's back with a familiarity she did not think possible and nested itself inside the farthest reaches of her mind. She fought it with everything she had. She knew she couldn't give into it again. It made her do things she would never do; say things she would never say. But she was progressively being submerged by the second. There was no fighting it.

"It is okay, 'Ermione," Fleur tried again, walking towards the English witch and drawing her own wand on the girl, "As long as you are with me, no 'arm will come to you."

Hermione couldn't think. She felt the blond drawing closer to her, but her desire to get away was no longer there. She wanted Fleur to come closer. She wanted her to come close enough to touch. She longed for that same contact they had earlier and in all honesty, anything more the French witch might be willing to give.

"Expelliarmus!" The spell rang out clear and true.

And just as soon as it was spoken, Hermione's wand flew from her hand. Without warning, her mind began to clear and she quickly came to the realization that she had no wand and no way of defending herself. Fleur had somehow come close enough to touch but Hermione cringed away from her reach. Now that she had regained control of her senses again, the panic and confusion began to grow from the pit of her stomach.

"What was that?!" She called out exasperatedly. The blond almost seemed to wince at the harshness of her voice, "What in bloody hell was that, Fleur?! What did you do to me?!"

"Please, calm down," the French witch ordered quietly, trying to once again sooth the overwrought girl and once again failing.

Just as Hermione's rage boiled to the point of bubbling over, there was a loud knocking at the front door of the apartment.

"C'est la police! Ouvez la porte!" A masculine voice yelled through the only barrier between them and the women inside.

Fleur's eyes shot up in the direction of the front door.

"Merde," she cursed underneath her breath.

The blond raced over to the fireplace, threw in a couple of logs, and started a fire with the flick of her wand. There was an old vase sitting on the table next to the bed and she dumped a handful of its contents into her hand before moving swiftly over to Gabrielle. The covers whipped across the air and fell heavily to the floor beneath her. The girl that was previously beneath them was jerked out of the bed faster than Hermione could keep up with and lead to the fireplace despite her moans and groans of pain and discomfort. When they got there, Fleur dumped the handful of what was assumed to be floo powder into the girl's hand. They shared a moment of unspoken eye contact before Gabrielle threw the powder into the fire and spoke loudly and clearly, "Delacour Manor."

Fire erupted outwardly as the girl was swallowed whole by the large emerald green flames. And now more than ever, Hermione wanted answers. She didn't really care who was on the other side of that door, she deserved answers and she was going to get them.

"What in bloody hell is going on? Is that the police outside? The muggle police outside your door? What have you done? What have you gotten me into?" Hermione yelled frantically, running up to the blond witch just as she was preparing herself to follow behind her sister.

"We do not 'ave time for this, 'ermione."

"Well then you bloody well better make time, Fleur. Because if you don't, I will march out there myself and tell those muggle police that you kidnapped me!" The English witch threatened.

Recognizing this problem was not going to go away and that the brunette was going to continue to fight her, Fleur walked up gracefully to Hermione and rested her hands gently to either side of the girl's head.

"Now is not the time. No 'arm will come to you as long as you are with me." But Hermione did not feel calm. She did not like this woman touching her and pulling her closer. It only added to the further confusion of earlier when she did encourage it; when she desired it. She didn't want to remember that. She didn't want to deal with those feelings or this crazy French witch with powers outside of anything she's ever known. But Fleur was making it impossibly difficult to ignore.

Hermione struggled to get away from the blond woman. She jerked her head back and took a few steps to the side to try to rid herself of the woman's touch, but Fleur held firm.

"I am sorry for this," the french witch said.

And before Hermione knew it, there was a sharp pain to the back of her head and everything went dark.

**Translations:**

**Comment vous appelez-vous= what is your name**

**J'arrive = I'm coming**

**C'est la police! Ouvre la porte! = It's the police! Open the door!**

**Merde = shit**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a huge dialogue chapter. I apologize for the huge info dump. It should be noted that the information revealed in this chapter is not all there is to it. There is much more to come.
> 
> Disclaimer: not mine. No money was made, etc.

**Chapter 3**

Hermione's head throbbed. She felt like she had been hit by the Hogwarts Express at full speed—more than once. She rolled over and whimpered, the pain surging throughout her brain as she switched positions. There were a set of covers and sheets blanketing her arms that she slapped away to rid herself of them. Once free, she brought her hands up to her temples, rubbing lightly at the pain there.

Her eyes suddenly popped open. They darted to the covers she had just removed from her upper body. If those were covers then that meant she was in a bed. It certainly wasn't her own bed. Her eyes darted to the lower half of her body—thank Merlin she was fully clothed. But this begged the question, if she was in a bed that was not her own, where exactly was she? Her head stayed unusually still while her eyes darted around taking in her current surroundings. This was most definitely not her room. She jolted upright. The ache in her head becoming stronger at the abrupt upward shift of her body. She pinched the bridge of her nose; a measly attempt to ease the ache that served to blur and disrupt her vision.

When the pang finally dwindled, she looked around the room. It was significantly larger than the last room she had been in but it also lacked that certain charm. The walls were white with intricate flowery designs painted across them in a delicate shade of blue—of which Hermione did not particularly care for, but that she could admit were pretty in their own right. The windows were sizable but heavily curtained to keep the light out. Silvery knickknacks accented each of the numerous shelves and tables that were scattered about here in there in no particular fashion.

Where am I? Hermione thought to herself.

A feather-like moan drifted into her left ear. Hermione jerked her head painfully towards where the noise had come from and immediately regretted it. She squeezed her eyes shut to once again mitigate the dull ache. It didn't work.

How do I always manage to get myself into these situations? She thought, releasing a grunt of frustration.

In the next instant, she was pushed flat on her back. The weight of a body straddling her rested lightly on her stomach. She tried to move her hands in order to push the offending weight off but they were instantly captured and pushed down to the bed beside her head.

"Docteure, please, do not struggle," Fleur said as she continued to hold Hermione in place.

"Don't tell me not to struggle, Fleur. You're completely mad if you think that I wouldn't struggle against the person who beat me over the head and kidnapped me," Hermione yelled. Each and every one of her grunts and groans echoed through the room as she continued to try to escape.

She felt a sharp, boney knee take the place of the hand that had been holding one of her arms down. The freed hand quickly cupped over Hermione's mouth. A curtain of blond hair fell down around the side of her face. Her breathing sounded harsh and ragged as she exhaled loudly against the French witch's hand. Those two cerulean blue eyes were so close to her own. They stared ever so expectantly into Hermione's very soul. But expectant of what, the English witch was not so sure.

"Please calm down, ma belle," the French witch soothed, "I told you no 'arm would come to you and I will keep my word. But you 'ave to remain calm. Your life is in grave danger and I cannot protect you if you do not remain calm."

Hermione's breathing started to slow. She felt all her muscles relax, though her heart continued to beat thunderously inside her chest. As she settled, she was promptly reminded of that awful headache.

Fleur waited for the brunette to completely still before speaking, "Now, I will remove my 'and, but you 'ave to promise you will not scream. There is more danger outside that door than you or I are prepared to deal with right now. I will answer any questions you 'ave, you just 'ave to promise that you will not scream or do anything to draw attention to this room."

Hermione's eyes widened. She nodded her head fervently in agreement—desperate to be free. After a brief moment of hesitation, Fleur removed her hand from the English witch's mouth.

"YOU ARE SO—" Hermione was cut off by a warning glare. The blond's hand was poised in the air, threatening to once again cover the English girl's mouth. She was wandless and at the mercy of a beautiful woman with strange magic she did not understand. And to top it all off, her head bloody hurt.

Hermione was upset and there were many things she felt she needed to say to the woman but she knew this was her only opportunity to get the one thing she'd wanted from the very beginning. Answers. And if the French woman was finally going to offer up answers, Hermione would be foolish to pass up an opportunity such as that. And she was not known as the brightest witch of her time for no reason.

"No harm my arse," she mumbled quietly under her breath, "You hit me over the head and kidnapped me."

"That..." Fleur struggled to find the right way to explain herself to the brunette, "was an exception."

Hermione's eyebrow rose and the corners of her mouth flattened out.

"I did not mean to 'urt you. They were coming and if I 'ad left you, they would 'ave taken you and done 'hoo knows what with you. I was trying to protect you," the French witch explained but to no avail.

"They were just muggle police, Fleur. I could have handled myself just fine. It's not like they could have charged me with anything. I'm completely innocent of whatever it is they had on you."

"There are a lot of things you don't understand about me, 'ermione. There are things you don't know about that situation," the blond retorted, fully removing herself from atop Hermione's body and folding her arms across her chest. The brunette's hand went to her head on instinct. The pain was more tolerable but it was still poignant in its existence. The frustration she was feeling began to eek out of her with a new compounding sense of vigor and vitality.

"Then tell me, Fleur. Tell me what it is you think I don't know about you. Tell me what I don't know about the situation," the brunette pleaded.

"I do not even know where to start," she said, lowering her eyes to the bedspread as if it were more fascinating than the current conversation.

"Well...okay then...let's start with an easy one then, shall we? Where the bloody hell are we?" Hermione asked, the words themselves were harsh, but the tone in which she spoke was very mild and tender; as if she wanted to have a casual conversation but wasn't able to find another way to phrase the question.

Fleur got up from the bed and walked over to a wardrobe on the far side of the room. She opened the cabinet and rustled around through the contents before popping around, seemingly satisfied with what she found there. A glass vial with red liquid was in the blonde's hand and was unceremoniously offered to Hermione as the blond returned to the bed. The English witch gave Fleur a questioning stare.

"For the headache," she said. Hermione wasn't sure if she could trust the blond, but her head really did hurt. And what more could Fleur Delacour really do to her at this point, short of killing her—even that might not be so bad anymore. With that, she threw the potion back, feeling instant relief as the liquid hit her empty stomach.

The French witch made herself comfortable as she sat back down on the bed beside Hermione before responding to her earlier question, "Delacour manor. This is my 'ome. You are in ma chambre."

"Good," Hermione encouraged, feeling more confident in herself now that the headache was gone and the French woman was cooperating with her, "Now...why are we here?"

"That is a very long story," Fleur saw Hermione's eyebrow arch again. Realizing she was teetering on the verge of breaking her own rules, she quickly sought to recover her delicate position, "And while I want very much to tell you all about it, I am afraid the story will 'ave to wait for another time, when I 'ave enough time to tell it."

"Why do you not have time to tell it now?" Hermione asked.

"Because it is the morning and the others know we are awake. They will be expecting us down for breakfast soon." Fleur didn't blink even once as she spoke, trying to instill confidence in her recently demurred honesty. She knew what the next question would be before the girl could even ask it.

"Who are 'they,' Fleur?"

The blond witch was not sure if she or the English witch were ready for the answer, but she had told the girl she would tell her anything. And she had felt bad enough having put the brunette through so much already, not to mention she brought her here and she couldn't very well lie to the girl about the circumstances she would come to find she was now in.

"’They’ are my clan. Ma famille."

"Clan?" Hermione was perplexed. Talking to this girl was like talking to a research project. She felt like she constantly had to push for any and all information she desired out of the woman.

"Oui."

Hermione folded her arms across her chest, mirroring the blond girl sitting before her. Fleur sighed.

"'Ermione, I am not exactly," she cut herself off, struggling to find the words to say what it was she needed to say, "I am not human. I believe your Ministère de la magie classifies us as magical creatures."

"Well what are you then?" Hermione was on the edge of her seat, dying inside to know the answer to this question and more.

"'Ow familiar are you with l'histoire of the Greek and Roman mythology?"

Hermione's eyebrows drew down in confusion. She was a little thrown off by the direction Fleur had taken this conversation. She wondered if the mysterious blond might be deflecting in order to get out of telling whatever it was she didn't want Hermione to know, but she was willing to let things play out a little further to be sure before the accusations started flying.

"I studied it a bit back in primary school before going to Hogwarts, why?"

"Do you remember the sirens in those stories?"

"Yes."

"Well we are descendants of those creatures. A more appropriate title for what myself and my clan are would be the Veela."

There was a brief pause in the conversation. Hermione had just taken in a lot of information at once and Fleur wanted to allow her the time she needed to process it all.

"So you're telling me you are related to a creature that essentially seduced people to their deaths." It wasn't a question. Fleur hurried to correct the girl, well aware of how quickly she could fly off the handle.

"I am telling you that I am a Veela and we are distant ancestors of Sirens."

A thought struck Hermione rather suddenly, "Is that what happened to me? Did you...did you seduce me?"

"I did not seduce you, 'ermione," she said in a way that implied that she fully believed what she was saying to be true, which was as close to honesty as the English witch was going to get, "Veela are different than sirens in the sense that we 'ave thrall. The thrall is often times used to get what we want. I am not sure 'ow to describe it. It is like a type of wandless magic, I suppose. We cast a certain spell on 'hoever and can make them do almost anything for us."

"Sounds kind of like rape if you ask me," Hermione muttered under her breath, not sure how the Veela would take it. Though she said it, she didn't really find it to be true. I mean those weren't her feelings at the time it happened to her—or at least she thought they weren't. Either way she knew it was far more complicated than that, having been through it herself. She only said it because she was upset and wanted to get under the other woman's skin.

"It is absolutely not rape!" The blond declared passionately, "We would never! The thought alone is vile and repugnant!"

"Okay, okay. It's not rape. I'm sorry," the brunette apologized, wishing she could take back her words. But it was too late. They were already out there. The damage had been done.

"The thrall does not work that way," the blond continued, looking off to anywhere but Hermione's eyes, "it is unbelievably insulting for you to say something of that nature. The Veela are many things, but we are not rapists!"

"Hey," Hermione rested a hand to Fleur's shoulder, "I really am sorry. I shouldn't have insinuated that. I sincerely apologize."

Their eyes locked and Hermione's heart skipped a beat. She wondered if it was due to any thrall Fleur might be emitting at that moment or if it were due to something else—something she wasn't quite ready to admit to herself or anyone just yet. She was still very unsure of how this whole thing worked and was curious to find out, having high hopes that what she might find would be just the thing she needed to solve the other burning issue she had been keeping so repressed. Just then, a knock came at the door to the bedroom.

"Fleur? Est-ce que vous descendez pour le petite déjeuner?” The feminine voice giggled through the barrier.

"Un moment!" Fleur called out in response.

The blond got up from the bed and ran off into an adjoining room. Hermione, curious as to what had suddenly gotten into the woman, followed after her. When the brunette stepped into the large room, she could barely contain her gasp. It was the most magnificent bathroom she'd ever seen. Fleur stood at the sink, adjusting her makeup snd fixing herself up—not that she wasn't already gorgeous. She was doing so in a way that implied she meant to look a certain way for whomever it was downstairs. When she was finished she came over to Hermione and started mussing up her hair. The brunette was thoroughly confused.

"What are you doing?" She asked.

"We 'ave to go downstairs now, ma belle. I am making it look like we spent the night together. I believe the Americans call this...sex 'air?" The blond said, as if it were perfectly normal for her to be doing what it was she was doing.

Hermione's cheeks turned a bright shade of pink, "You mean to tell me that you're trying to make it look like we had-" she couldn't allow herself to say the word as loudly as she had been speaking; she lowered her voice to a whisper, "that we had sex?"

Her blush grew in intensity at having spoken the word out loud.

"Oui."

"Why, Fleur?" Hermione was starting to get frustrated. It irked her that she constantly had to push the woman for answers to simple questions.

Fleur grabbed some blush and started to brush it across the English witch's cheeks.

"The Veela are a very private people, 'ermione. We do not share our secrets with anyone, especially non-Veela," the blond stared into the brunette's eyes as she spoke, "but seeing as your life is at stake and I 'ave vowed to protect you from 'arm, I will tell you this. The Veela are very sensual beings. We do not bring people 'ome wizout the intention to mate with them. It is apart of 'hoo we are."

"Okay, but I'm not sure how that is of any concern to me," Hermione said, shifting uncomfortably under the blond's stare. The blond stepped away to retrieve another makeup product from one of the drawers under the sink.

"You are about to walk into a nest of Veela. They will 'ave expectations of our relationship. They will expect you to be under my thrall. If they 'ave any reason to believe that you are not and that we are not mating, then one of them will capture you with their thrall and you will die."

Hermione did not expect such a blunt answer, considering how withheld the french witch had been up until this point. She remembered the blond's reaction earlier when she had accused her of rape. Something did not add up here.

"So you're against rape but murdering innocent people is perfectly acceptable?"

"It is not like that, ma colombe. It is not like it is done execution style. We do not mean to do it. That is what makes the Veela so dangerous," she said calmly, spreading a shimmery substance around Hermione's eyes and lips, "The thrall does not just affect the person under the influence of it. It also affects the Veela. If we use it too much for too long, we will get too caught up in the feelings and we loose control. Eventually, it becomes so strong that it 'as a permanent affect on the brain of the person 'hoo is under the influence of it."

The blond stopped applying makeup, satisfied with Hermione's looks.

"What happens to them?" The brunette wondered aloud, deeply invested in the tale being told.

"They become so obsessed and enamored with the Veela that they stop taking care of themselves. They stop eating. They stop moving. They just stop. Until one day they just wither away completely." Fleur was very quiet. Her eyes looked sad and she closed them as if it would make the unwanted feelings disappear. She shook her head and walked off, grabbing two silk robes from a hook that had been previously hidden on the back of the bathroom door.

She held the robe up to Hermione with the expectation that the brunette would step into it. Hermione shrugged it on and turned back to the blond witch who was doing the same with a robe of her own. The soft, cool silk left a feeling against the English witch's skin that she rather enjoyed. So much so, she started absentmindedly playing with the fringe on the sleeve.

She suddenly felt nervous. Was she really about to go down to a room filled with women that had the ability to do whatever it was they wished of her to a point that she could die if things got out of hand? She wasn't necessarily frightened. In a weird way, she trusted the blond when she told her she would protect her. And Hermione didn't think she was currently under the influence of the Veela's thrall; so she was most certain these were her own feelings on the matter—but she had been wrong before. It was an extremely delicate situation and should be handled as such. Which is why nervousness was the best description of what she felt; slight apprehension at best, but most definitely curiosity.

Fleur grabbed Hermione by her shoulders and stared deeply into her eyes, effectively breaking the brunette from her wandering thoughts, "I will not use my thrall on you. Unless, that is, you feel like you need it." She shook her head and stumbled over her words, as if she truly meant to say things in a way that wouldn't be upsetting to the girl before her, "What I mean to say is, they are expecting you to be under my thrall. It is imperative that you act as taken with me as possible. You must appear to desire me in every way possible—in a way you 'ave never desired another before. If you feel as if you are unable to do that, I could use a little of my thrall—it would not take much. But I will not use it unless that is what you wish. The others cannot tell if my thrall is there or not. But they will be 'eavily scrutinizing you and they will be able to tell if you are not acting passionate enough with me."

Despite what the blond was asking of her and the circumstances in which she now found herself, Hermione thought the offered gesture was sweet. She didn't know much, if anything, about Veela culture aside from what Fleur had just disclosed to her, but she got the sense that this was not an invitation the Veela extended often—if at all. So, she considered herself lucky to be in the good favor of the French witch and the tightness she had been feeling in her chest since she had started this mess finally started to ebb. And while she felt relieved, she still had no desire to be under Fleur's thrall again. It was a feeling she was not prepared to deal with and she felt like she needed time to recover from those feelings it left behind from the last time she was under its influence.

"Thank you for the offer. I think I can handle it on my own, though," the English witch said with a small smile.

"Are you sure, 'ermione?" The French witch questioned, her eyes giving away her obvious concern, "You will 'ave to touch me and quite possibly kiss me as you would a lover behind closed doors. Your passion for me will 'ave to be as much visible as it is believable."

The English witch looked to the mirror beside her. Fleur had done a very good job making her up to look as if they'd spent the night doing ungodly things to each other's bodies. Hermione's cheeks looked pink as if they had been kissed by a permanent flush. Her lips shimmered as if the taste of a lover were still lingering on them. And her hair was messy like it had been gripped wildly in the throws of passion. She looked like a right tramp.

She could pull this off. It wasn't as if the blond wasn't attractive. You would have to be blind to think otherwise and even then your sanity would be severely questioned. Hermione found herself wondering that if Fleur weren't a Veela, and if they had meet under entirely different circumstances, and if she had had the opportunity to try to form some kind of sexual relationship with this woman would she do it? The answer was most undoubtedly yes. It would not be too difficult to pretend to desire the blond with everything she had. The only difficulty would be in not letting the awkwardness of pretending in front of a group of predatory Veela get to her. But even then she still felt confident enough to handle it.

"Yes. I'm sure. No thrall, please."

"Okay. This is it then. Shall we go?" Fleur offered her arm for Hermione to take.

The brunette looped her arm through the offered one and they left the room.

* * *

**Translations:**

**1\. Est-ce que vous descendez pour le petite déjeuner** **? = Are you coming down for breakfast?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not. Mine. No. Money. Made. Here.

**Chapter 4**

Anagnorisis. Anagnorisis is a term to describe the point in a story where a character has a sudden awareness of the reality of their situation, often signifying the untimely end of a most ill-disposed tragedy. Too often it feels as if our stories—our worlds—have ended, when in all actuality they have only just begun. If that is so, then how does any one person know when their story is over? After all, a story can't go on forever. Surely something as definitive as Anagnorisis is sufficient enough a symbol of the end, being that it is the very moment one accepts that very forlorn actuality. But even if we ourselves declare our story to be over and done with, does it ever truly end at all?

Surely not. There are times when we wish for our story to end and it doesn't and it gets worse. Coincidentally, there are times when we wish for our story to end and it doesn't and it gets better. There are even times when we wish for our story not to end, and to our dismay, it does—expeditiously and without a finite resolution—but then, to our surprise, a new story is born of it. So simply recognizing and wishing for it one way or the other cannot truly affect the outcome. Right?

Hermione hadn't the faintest clue of what her story had to offer. She wasn't even sure of how she wanted it to end. Hell, she'd be more than elated if she could just process the enigma that took shape in the form of her feelings on the matter. But nothing was clear. Everything had happened so fast and was still railing on at phenomenal speeds. She may never have the time it would take to figure it all out.

She sat slumped in front of Fleur's locked bathroom door pondering what exactly it was she felt at this very moment. That was a good place to start at least. She was not one to cater to feelings of melodramatic disquiet as if her very world were ending—she wasn't one to cater to an abundance of feelings at all. But this situation was most undoubtedly different than anything she'd ever experienced before.

Anger was first and foremost on the list of emotions. She was unbelievably mad—at what specifically, she wasn't sure, though it was safe to say many things had contributed overall. Betrayal was at a close second. But only because the blond's constant betrayal of her trust was one of the many things that made Hermione angry. Then there was the lust and desire which had become the usual when around the beautiful Veela. And now that she knew why she felt those two things, it was easier to shrug them off as lesser, insignificant feelings. But she couldn't help but think there was something else there. A certain something that had to have been the core reason why she continued to sit at that locked bathroom door. The very same something that had been stopping her from leaving since the minute that insufferable French witch waltzed into her life.

It was obvious that this moment was undeniably critical in Hermione's story. Whether or not it was a moment meant exclusively for her own recognition or not was unclear, but its significance lit a path inside her like a single burning candle in utter darkness. And the English witch, well...she was drawn to it like a moth to that very flame.

_2 hours earlier..._

"Follow my lead," Fleur whispered into the brunette's ear as they walked down the hall, "and do not speak unless spoken to."

They rounded a corner into the dining room and, in a bout of shyness, Hermione clung tighter to the blond's arm.

"Fleur Delacour! I was beginning to think you were never coming down from your little love nest," a strangely American voice rang out across the room.

The French witch stopped at the sound and Hermione could feel the woman's muscles tighten in her grip. The newcomer was a tall woman with eyes as dark as her brown hair. She wore a pretentious smile that looked as if it were always plastered to her face and Hermione was curious if there were a certain darkness that may have lurked behind it as well.

"Adriana, I was not expecting you to be 'ere," Fleur said. Her arm slipped from Hermione's grasp, clutching her by the hand at the last second and pulling her over to the strange new woman. Hermione watched awkwardly as the two women greeted each other with a kiss to each cheek.

"Don't be silly, Mademoiselle Delacour. You know I always pop by when I'm in the area. Let me fix you a cup of coffee, hmm?" Adriana replied, disappearing off into another room that Hermione assumed would be the kitchen.

Fleur pulled the brunette along over to the table where a large group of women were sitting and giggling to themselves. A few of them had men or another woman hanging off of them, kissing random parts of their bodies. Those poor people had to have been under the Veela thrall, given their focus was only on the women before them, Hermione presumed. She found herself briefly speculating at how much longer they had to live. Which was not long if judging by the worn down and unhealthy appearance of some of them. She shook the thought off. She should be focusing only on Fleur right now. Because that's what she would be doing if she were under the influence of the woman's thrall. She had a part to play and she would play it in that typical Hermione Granger fashion—without error.

Fleur sat in a chair at the table and led Hermione to stand behind her. The brunette's hands came to rest rather instinctively on the French witch's tensed shoulders. There then, this was easy enough. This was something a lover would do. She started to massage the strong shoulders in her hands, being sure to keep her face as close as possible to the woman's neck as if she were about to kiss it, but not quite taking that plunge. She looked convincing enough.

Adriana returned from the kitchen in no time with a hot cup of blackened coffee. She handed it to Fleur and stared at her expectantly, refusing to avert her attention for even a second until the blond took a sip. Apperceptive of this and not wanting to test Adriana's patience, the French witch took a large gulp. That seemed to satisfy the American woman, so she finally took a seat at one of the open spaces at the table and took a long drawn out sip of her own cup of coffee.

No one in the room spoke. This woman commanded everyone's attention as if she were someone extremely important and no one dare cross her unless they were prepared to deal with the consequences of having done so.

"Tell me, Fleur, who is this?" Adriana asked in manner that suggested she already knew the answer to the question.

"'Ermione Granger," Fleur replied almost immediately, her shoulders tightening in Hermione's grasp as she spoke. The English witch's ministrations quickly went from that of feigned infatuation to that of genuine concern, kneading harder at the muscles to loosen them from the tightness that she felt wasn't healthy for a woman as young as Fleur.

"THE Hermione Granger, wow. What a pleasure to be in your company. Fleur," Adriana said haughtily, "how on earth did you, of all people, get a hold of someone as revered as the Golden girl of the Second Wizarding War?"

"Gabrielle was wounded and we were being chased and I 'ad nowhere else to go for 'elp. A friend of mine 'ad told me a few days ago that 'ermione might be taking a muggle train to Versailles, so I apparated to that very train 'opeful that she might be on it because I knew she would 'elp," the blond answered. Hermione would have been upset by the fact that Fleur had never told her that their meeting wasn't exactly accidental, except for the fact that she knew she had never asked. That and she was utterly fascinated by how forthcoming the blond was being with this strange woman. Was she a Veela too? Could one Veela use their thrall on another Veela? Was Fleur under Adriana's thrall?

Hermione's thoughts were interrupted by Fleur who was suddenly pulling at her arms, signaling for her to sit in the French witch's lap. The brunette tried to stay in character, feeling all of a sudden rather intimidated by the powerful American woman and still mildly mistrustful of the blond. She came around and sat across Fleur's lap as requested. She wasn't sure what an amatory lover would do in this situation, so she set about gently kissing the blond's neck. Though she was careful to also listen in closely to the conversation to gain more insight into what was going on. Whatever the cause, the blond was revealing important information. And it was in Hermione's best interest to absorb those facts while this limited window of time was offered to her. Only then, when she knew all she needed to know about these strange creatures and the reasoning behind her being here would she react to the situation.

"Why was Gabrielle wounded, Fleur?" Adriana questioned, taking another delicate sip of coffee.

"We were confronting another clan about their refusal to leave our lands and they drew their wands on us. One of the girls misfired a spell and it pushed Gabby back into a metal shard." The words flowed so easily from Fleur's lips. Hermione was perplexed by the easiness in which she spoke. She was so distracted by the story being told that she accidentally nipped a little too hard at a sensitive spot on Fleur's neck. The French witch shuddered.

In a matter of seconds, Hermione was helplessly drowning in the sultry sweetness of Veela thrall. It was so thick around her—the thickest she'd ever experienced. And, much unlike the previous times, it had happened so fast. A biting jolt of arousal shot through her entire being like a lightening bolt from the heavens. There was no one else in the room. There was only Fleur. And Hermione craved her, in that moment, like she had never and would never crave another being. She wanted to kiss her. She wanted to feel the blond's skin on her own. She wanted to feel Fleur inside her as she screamed the woman's name in ecstasy.

Hermione grabbed the French witch by the face and pulled their lips together hungrily, kissing the blond with all of the passion boiling over inside her. Fleur was hesitant at first as she and Hermione kissed. But the moment the brunette's tongue came into play, dancing wildly in search of Fleur's, the blond returned the kiss fervently. She moaned her pleasure loudly into the brunette's open mouth.

Adriana cleared her throat multiple times to get their attention, but to no success. After the third or so time, Fleur only managed to pull away from Hermione momentarily, long enough to say, "I'm sorry. Can this wait? It is that time. As you can see, I 'ave to take care of this."

Hermione was relentless. She ravished Fleur's neck with kisses, leaving bites and bruises on any and all skin that grazed her lips. When Fleur pulled the brunette's head up and their mouths once again met, it was Hermione's moan that echoed throughout the room. With a fierce neediness, she straddled the blond to gain better access to her sweet mouth. She bucked and writhed as they kissed, seeking so much more than what she was being given.

Adriana's seemingly permanent smirk fell from her face.

"Yes, yes. Go on. Before you get everyone else all riled up," she dismissed them as if an unspoken rule prevented her from interfering with what was about to happen. What she said was true. The other Veela in the room were noticeably affected by the display. A few even left the room with their lovers at the dark-haired woman's dismissal.

Fleur was more than happy to leave. She grabbed a cheek from Hermione's bottom in each hand, pulling her closer as she did so, then stood, still clutching eagerly to the brunette's supple backside. Hermione's legs locked of their own accord around Fleur's waist as she was lifted. With another loud moan and a tight squeeze to the proffered cheeks, the blond began walking them to her bedroom.

The minute they got to the bedroom, Fleur kicked the door shut with her foot and shoved Hermione's body roughly up against it, kissing her anywhere and everywhere she could see skin.

"You 'ave no idea 'ow bad I want to fuck you, mon souffle," the blond growled. She pushed herself into the English witch, delighting in the pleasure that shot through her core. Hermione adjusted herself so that each thrust the blond made met her center. The fabric between them rubbed against the English witch's clit and livened her body with the same jolts of arousal. Hermione longed to remove that pesky fabric. She wanted to rid herself of the one thing that prevented her from rubbing her juices all over the magnificent blue-eyed beauty.

"'Ermione," the blond broke their kiss and cried out in pleasure.

The English witch could only moan in response, grinding herself back into the blond witch, cursing the very clothing that barred her from that which she desired most. There was so much she wished she could say. So much she felt inside that she yearned to voice out to the blond. It felt so good. The blond felt so wonderful pressed into her most sensitive of areas. She could feel how wet she had become with each and every thrust of Fleur's crotch into her own and it sent shivers up and down her spine. But she needed more. She wanted more. She wanted Fleur to fuck her. She wanted Fleur to keep fucking her until she couldn't be fucked anymore.

Without any warning, Hermione dropped to the ground with a hard thud. Fleur ran off to the bathroom. Seeing this and still so greedy for contact with the object of her greatest desires, the brunette quickly scrambled to chase after the French witch. But the bathroom door slammed shut in Hermione's face. She jiggled senselessly at the handle, but the door was locked.

Now that there was at least a little distance between herself and Fleur, she found the fog had cleared enough for her to be able to speak if only a little. Although the desire for the woman was still there, driving her mad in her want of the French witch. That passion made her sound wild and unrestrained as she called out to the woman.

"Fleur! Please, open up. Please don't go," she pleaded with the door repeatedly. She banged her fists against it until her hands ached. Though there was nothing but silence in return.

_Present..._

Hermione slumped further against the door. Fleur had just used her thrall on her after she had explicitly asked her not to. And she had knowingly dragged Hermione into a very dangerous situation. When Hermione finally came to her senses, she was livid. There was something about Fleur that made her seem so sincere and trustworthy. If all evidence proved otherwise, why did she keep giving the French witch the benefit of the doubt? Had she gone mad? Oh, but every kiss from that woman made Hermione feel like her soul was leaving her body to go to the most wondrous of places far away from this world and all its inconsistencies.

Perhaps the answers lie in that burning feeling deep down inside her that seemed to be the culprit behind her most unreasonable of actions. What was that unexplainable something inside her?

Could it be the Veela's thrall? She wondered to herself, remembering what Fleur had told her about the effects it had on a person's brain. It would be unbelievably easy to blame the thrall for all of this nonsense. Though the English witch could not allow herself to fully submit to the idea. There had always been a certain genuineness in all of her interactions with the blond that she felt could have only come from her own heart. Then again, Fleur had said that the thrall was so powerful that it also affected the Veela casting it. What if she had used too much? Hermione had been under the influence of the thrall a few times now, each of which, she had felt the blond lose control more and more. Maybe her brain was in the beginning stages of being altered to the point she couldn't tell the difference between her own feelings and what the thrall had stirred inside her. Then again, were those two things even different?

Another key player in this mystery was the English witch's unbridled curiosity. Hermione was a scholar. The one thing she always placed on a pedestal above all others was her pursuit of knowledge. Fleur and everything she'd figured out up to this point about the Veela were no more a gold mind to her intellectual proficiencies. She'd be lying if she said that everything about the blond didn't thoroughly intrigue her. Not to mention that if she weren't in her current situation, she would be at some stuffy convention partaking in idle chit chat about things she already knew. She most certainly wouldn't be here, in the thick of danger, learning new and exciting things. In a weird, roundabout way, the blond had saved her from such a fate. And who was she to ever turn down the opportunity to learn and explore something of which she had no prior knowledge.

Not to mention, her abounding intelligence assured that if she had wanted to leave, she was more than capable of doing so. But that was exactly the thing, wasn't it. Hermione Granger did not want to leave. Regardless of why or how, it was true all the same. She wanted to be there, in that room, at that door, near that blond sitting on the other side.

Hermione's head dropped even lower if possible. She laced her fingers throughout her messy hair.

And while it most certainly felt like the most untimely end to an ill-disposed tragedy, it wasn't. The world would go on turning just like it always had and everyone would go about their day to day lives just like they always would. And while she knew this, Hermione couldn't help the lingering trepidation inside her. She knew what she wanted, but she still needed to figure out the reasoning behind that feeling deep down in her gut. Because it may not end the world, but she knew that finding the answer very well could be the end of something and she wasn't entirely sure what that was or if she was even ready for whatever that might be. Nevertheless, she needed to find out for sure.

The door behind Hermione creaked open. A warm body joined her on the floor where she still sat, head in hands. The blond's presence only served to further fuel her confusion. And this time she was absolute in the fact that it wasn't the thrall causing it. She sighed defeatedly.

"Words cannot express 'ow sorry I am that I did that to you, 'ermione. Please believe me when I say that I did not intend for any of that to 'appen. I do not want to do anything to betray your trust like that, I'm so sorry," the blond said softly. Tears trickled down her face, ruining the makeup she had applied earlier and she made no move to adjust it in any way. She looked so raw, so unkept. It was the most real Hermione had ever seen her, "I knew that it is that time for me and I chose to do it anyways. I shouldn't 'ave done it. Especially now, of all times. But she was asking questions—she could 'ave found out about you—she—"

"Slow down now, Fleur. I can't understand you. Why did you do it?" The brunette asked just as softly, her anger having long since died down to a dwindling ember among the ash.

"Veritaserum."

The words almost seemed to echo around the woman as she spoke, "Adriana slipped Veritaserum into my tea."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, dear readers, that everything post-Hogwarts and post-war has been altered in this story. If Hermione went into Healing instead of working for the Ministry of Magic, then that means she never had the opportunity to publicly fight for and advanced rights for magical creatures. Just wanted to reemphasize this point before we carry on.
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm not being paid for this. It's all in fun.

 

**Chapter 5**

"Fleur, can I take advantage of you for a moment?" Hermione requested, fixing hopefully onto the blond's eyes.

They were both still sitting on the floor of Fleur's bedroom in front of the bathroom door.

"Doctuere 'ermione Granger, you are welcome—non—encouraged to do whatever it is you want to me. My body, my mind, they are all yours to do with as you please. Use me, abuse me—je m'en fiche. I 'ope you take advantage of me in any and every way possible," The French woman was a little abashed by her own words. A burning blush covered her cheeks that matched the vibrant shade of pink that also formed at Hermione's. The English witch cleared her throat, expelling her compunction with it.

"I meant, may I take advantage of your current situation, being that you are under the influence of the Veritaserum," the brunette corrected shyly, finding it hard to look into the blond's eyes after being at the receiving end of such a lascivious admittance.

"I will not like it, but there is nothing I can do to stop you, mon ange" the French woman professed. She would not lie to Hermione. And not just because she was under the direct spell of the truth-telling serum, but because she wholeheartedly didn't want to. The brunette's trust meant more to Fleur than even she was willing to admit.

It's not as if, in the beginning, Fleur had meant to be so secretive and reserved with the English witch. She had wanted very much to tell her everything she knew about herself and Veela's and what was brewing beneath the surface of the Wizarding world. It was just infinitely more complicated than that. There were constraints and consequences that came with revealing Veela culture to a being of non-Veela heritage. And most likely there was a good reason for it to be that way—like the fact that it can be very hard for someone who hadn't grown up in a Veela household to understand some of the urges, instincts, and customs that go along with being one.

If these things weren't handled with the utmost of caution when explained, it certainly left an unnecessary amount of room for misinterpretation. Simply put, while she wanted to disclose everything, her current position was not an ideal one to do so. She didn't want to reveal as much as she knew she was about to in as crass of a manner as the truth potion was forcing her to. She was concerned she might scare the English witch off and she didn't want to take even the slightest chance that she might.

Whether or not Fleur wanted her to, Hermione set about asking the first question, "Earlier, you said that it was 'that time' for you. What did you mean by that?"

It was the worst possible place they could have started this conversation. Fleur readied herself for the onslaught of inappropriate words that would most definitely spew forth from her unwilling mouth.

"For two weeks in a month every other month, the Veela 'ave an enhanced desire to mate. I think the closest thing to compare it to would be the time when a 'uman woman is ovulating. Though for the Veela it is a lot more intense—like being in heat, I assume—but maybe not quite that primal. I would say it is more somewhere in between those two things, really. We are very particular about 'hoo we choose to mate with. But if we are around that certain person during the mating time, then we have an overwhelming urge to 'ave sex with them until the time is over and our bodies are satisfied. In Veela culture it is expected of us to act on this impulse immédiatement. We also get very territorial in that time. If another Veela or anyone were to try to interfere with the mating process, then there would be a fight for the mate. Biologically speaking, it is a way to assure our species survives and is plentiful. Though it does not turn out too well for the being who 'as been chosen as the mate," Fleur explained cringing a little at just how thoroughly she had answered the original question. The words had flowed so easily out of her mouth like vomit whether she had wanted them to or not. She tried terribly hard to read the brunette's face for any sign of discomfort, but Hermione was not as open as those books she loved to read.

"So then, I'm confused as to why you used your thrall on me. Why did you do it?" Hermione finally acknowledged after a few minutes of mulling over the information quietly to herself.

"I was under the influence of the Veritaserum. I realized that very quickly. Adriana was asking a lot of questions, trying to interrogate me. I needed to get away before I revealed anything about you. If they had found out you were not under my thrall...you 'ave to remember, you are not permitted to be in this 'ouse of your own free will, 'ermione. It is against our cultural beliefs to disclose any information about ourselves, much less bring a potential mate into our 'ome without being completely lost in the thrall. They would 'ave taken matters into their own 'ands. It was the only thing I could come up with at the time that would allow us to leave without question or interference from them," Fleur was very resolute in her reply so sure that she had made the correct choice for the right reasons, until a playful glint sparkled in one of her blue eyes, "aussi, I couldn't tell them anything if my mouth was busy doing something else, n'est-ce pas?"

Hermione's cheeks burned. She struggled to keep what little composure she'd gained back since being under the thrall hours ago. That was easier said than done.

"And...the reason that was so intense is because it is 'that time' for you," Hermione said more to herself trying to connect all the pieces of information together.

"It is that time and you are a potential mate, oui," Fleur said truthfully. Hermione did a double take. That was definitely something she had missed before, though she wasn't sure why. It had been extremely obvious now that she thought back on the past 24 hours or so.

"You...you want to mate with me?" She asked quizzically.

"Bien sûr que oui, ma bichette. You are exceptionally beautiful and intelligent and the ideal candidate for a mate. Between the two of us, our children would 'ave the best traits. They wouldn't be anything short of perfect. I can't even fathom 'ow successful they would be in this world. It is almost unfair to the other children 'hoo would be born around the same time," Fleur raved wildly with a passion that could set fire to an entire forrest if possible. Her eyes sharpened like a falcon honing in on its prey. She moved closer and closer to Hermione as she spoke. But the brunette was clearly far less prone to the idea and made that well-known, backing away quickly from the prowling Veela's advances.

"Ch-ch-children?" Hermione tried to keep her cool. She mentally checked herself of any evidence of the Veela's thrall but absolutely non was found. Which meant, that any salacity the English woman was feeling in that moment was very much her own. And it only flustered her even more to know that the blond woman's mere presence was enough to rouse such a reaction inside her, "We've only just met, Fleur. Don't you think it's a little too...I dunno—sudden—to be talking about—about...well, about children. We're not even in a relationship. Not to mention it's biologically impossible."

"Oui, mais you forget, ma douce, that I am of creature blood and customs. This is not fast for me—'onestly it's not fast enough. But this is precisely the time for this to be 'appening. And my creature blood assures that our biologies are not the same which goes to show you cannot be absolutely certain whether or not it is biologically possible for us to 'ave les bébés. En fait, I can think of at least trois different ways to properly mate with you right 'ere, right now. 'Ow confident are you in your observation, Doctuere Belle? Would you care to test just 'ow impossible you think it is?" The French witch purred. There was a hint of a challenge in her tone and she longed for Hermione to accept.

"Well it may be that time for you, but it certainly isn't that time for me," the English witched floundered shakily.

Fleur wasn't using her thrall—holding it back with everything she had—but it was clear she was getting to Hermione. In fact, the brunette had already had a taste of what it would be like to explore the blond in the way she wished to. They both knew it would not take too much on the blond's part to send the girl tumbling down that wall of resolution that was well formed between them. And the English witch couldn't say with all honesty that a part of her didn't wish Fleur would just do away with the niceties and send her toppling over already. But something about seeing Hermione like this hit Fleur hard like a brick falling on her chest. She pulled herself away from the brunette witch and promptly set about calming herself down.

"I apologize, Docteure Granger," Fleur spoke once she had shaken herself of her own base desires, suddenly becoming inherently formal with the English woman, "I am usually a lot better at controlling myself. I 'ave never been fond of the life I am forced to live. I 'ave spent a lot of time fighting this...beast inside me—'olding myself back. Because I do not like the idea of forcing myself onto people. I do not like that they have to die because of me," she fell quiet for a moment, her tone somber and submissive, "Though I 'ave yet to run into a potential mate that has sparked my interest like you 'ave. You are quite the remarkable woman. You are exceptionally good at breaking any and all of the resolve I've worked so 'ard to build over the past several years."

Hermione felt sorry for the woman. She couldn't help who she was. And she certainly shouldn't have to be in a constant state of war with herself over something that is only natural to her very being. The English witch knew what it was like to feel ashamed of who you are. To feel like who you are is dangerous to others. She was a muggle-born witch after all and she had spent a large portion of her life worrying over the impact that lifestyle would have on her muggle parents. Even to this day, she still often times worried over it. She looked over to the blond witch, who sat hunched over uncomfortably in attempt to keep a good distance between them. She looked so distressed. She looked so small. It bothered the English witch to see her this way.

She stood up and offered her hands out to the blond witch, indicating she wanted to help her up from the ground. The French woman looked confused, but took the offered hands nonetheless. Hermione lifted her up and led her to the bed. She plopped down and scooted towards the center. After getting comfortable with a cross of her legs, she patted the spot next to her. The blond smiled, crawling onto the bed towards the English witch, and laid down. Her head rested gently in Hermione's lap. The brunette wasn't sure what to do—or if she should do anything at all, really. The gesture didn't seem at all sexual. It was just that of a friend seeking solace in the physical contact of another friend.

"So, what? Does that mean you're hopelessly in love with me now?" Hermione said with a coy grin. Fleur's laugh rang out across the room, melodious in it's delicate resonance. Hermione's smile grew wider.

When the French witch responded, her voice was deep and over-exaggerated as if to imitate another person, "Non. Ce n'est pas comme ça. The Veela are not capable of love," her voice returned back to it's normal tone, "or so I've always been conditioned to believe. They did well to drive that into all of our brains growing up. Though I've never really believed it. It always seemed like somezing they would tell us so that we would never try to love, t'sais? Because for us, to love any one of our mates...it is as good as death. They die because of us. And to love them...we would lose a little piece of ourselves every time. Until there was nothing left to lose, I suppose. Then what? Je ne sais pas. It is a tragic thing indeed. I guess it has more to do with the fact that we will never allow ourselves to love. Because the heartache that goes along with doing so is unbearably fatal. Though I don't know a Veela other than myself 'hoo would admit that. I myself 'ave never been in love. You are the only non-creature I've allowed myself to get this close to up until now. I am far too dangerous for love."

Of its own volition, Hermione's hand absentmindedly played with the blond locks that were splayed across her lap.

"Wait. So you've never," Hermione tried to phrase it just right, "you've never taken a mate?"

"I 'ave taken but one. Back when I was very young and new to the sexuality that comes with Veela puberty. I was unbelievably captivated with her. With the combination of my youth and inexperience and overeagerness to be with her, she faced the same fate as all Veela mates and because I was so young, it was a lot quicker than normal," the blond stared wistfully into the distance as she recounted her tale, "I took it rather 'ard. And it was then I knew that I never wanted to do that to another being for as long as I should live."

"I'm sorry," was all Hermione felt she could say in response. She wished she could do more to console the woman, but she had no experience in how to deal with emotional trauma. That was not exactly her area of expertise. She'd never been very good with her own feelings much less feelings that belonged to someone else.

"I am not like the others, 'ermione. I don't wish to be this way. I do not wish to take innocent lives so carelessly as if they matter less than my own. And Adriana and the others, they look down on me for it. Thinking I am weak and disgraceful—"

That had reminded Hermione of a different topic she had meant to discuss with the blond earlier.

"Who is Adriana exactly?"

"She is the Matriarch of another Veela clan that 'as only recently become allied to ours."

"You make it sound like you're at war or something."

"Ouais, enfin...we are." Hermione's eyebrow shot up, giving the French woman one of the most precarious of looks, "Come now, you do not seriously believe that everything was just neatly wrapped up with a pretty little bow at the end of the Second Wizarding War, now did you? There’s a whole other world out there, 'ermione. A whole world filled with magical creatures 'hoo feel as if they have won nothing. Even though they fought in the wars and lost friends and family to those wars, and nobody did anything to 'elp them. They still feel the very injustice that caused those wars. There are some creatures 'hoo are vengeful and want to start something with the wizarding and muggle communities. And there are some of us 'hoo wish to keep the peace. Either way, the whole thing ‘as caused quite an upheaval among all 'hoo share any kind of ancestry with magical creatures."

Hermione stared off at nothing in particular. This was a lot for her to take in at one time. There were so many things she hadn't known before and now the information was just there; thrown out on the table before her. It was a little hard to digest. Two soft but firm fingers grabbed hold of the brunette's chin and turned her face downwards towards her lap until she met a pair of crystal blue eyes.

"I know you are using the truth serum to your advantage right now and I 'ope you are getting the answers you want, but this is not a game, ma bichette. This is very real and very dangerous. I am not supposed to tell you any of what I 'ave just recently told you. Doing so goes against my entire clan and all of our allies. I would be punished if they knew that I did. And you," the blond took a deep breath, the words were hard for her to say, "you would be killed. You cannot let anyone know that you know. You cannot breathe a word of this to anyone. Please promise me you will be careful."

"I promise, Fleur," Hermione said solemnly.

At that exact moment, there was an emphatic roar that rumbled ferociously next to the blond witch's head. Hermione tried to no avail to hide the growling at her stomach, but hunger is not something that is easily ignored. And she hadn't eaten in quite awhile. She also hadn't really been sure of how to properly broach this topic with the French woman. Which is why it never came up. It was mildly shameful that her stomach had to be the one to announce the news.

"Mon Dieu, I am awful at this. All this time and I have yet to feed you. Un moment," The French witch exclaimed, jumping up from the bed. She ran over to a dresser, grabbed her wand, and disapparated with a faint pop.

In the moments Hermione had to herself, she thought back on everything Fleur had just confided in her. Now, she remembered quite clearly what she had been taught back at Hogwarts about Veritaserum. It was not a full-proof way of getting the actual truth of events that are told. She knew very well that it could only make an individual disclose information as they themselves knew it to be true. So she couldn't be one hundred percent sure as to whether or not what Fleur had disclosed was true from an outside perspective. But she knew with an undying certainty that the blond witch had told her what she knew to be true. And that was more than enough for Hermione at this point.

There was still so much more she was curious to know and understand. But even though she knew the veritaserum would eventually wear off, she felt as if she could trust Fleur. Which may sound dangerous and unwise for someone who had just been essentially kidnapped and brought to a Veela mating ground. But it was precisely that danger that drew her in—that made her feel alive. It seemed as if in her time spent at Hogwarts, she was always in danger—in one way or another. And it had all but vanished the minute the war was over and she had settled down to go on about her life. She hadn't realized until now how much she had missed it. How much it had defined who she was as a person. Fleur was quite the adventure. And everything about the blond was extraordinarily dangerous. The brunette quite liked even the mere idea if that.

It was then Hermione noticed that the French witch had been gone for quite awhile. And within seconds of this revelation, the blond returned, breakfast tray in hand filled with all kinds of French breakfast goodies. The brunette's stomach rumbled again at the prospect of being properly fed.

"Désolée for the wait. I 'ad to make everything myself. I 'ope you like it," the blond said nervously as she walked over and placed the tray of food down in front of Hermione.

"It looks lovely. Thank you, Fleur," Hermione replied, a smile forming on her lips. She hadn't been particularly thrilled about the idea of going back downstairs among the other Veelas again and no one had ever brought her breakfast in bed before. Hermione found it quite sweet that Fleur had gone out of her way to take care of her.

Just then, the blond plucked a strawberry from a crepe on one of the plates and slowly brought the small red fruit to her lips, sensually sucking on its juices. Hermione watched her; completely taken with the way the woman so amatively ate before her. She found herself wondering what it would feel like to have the blond witch's mouth do the same thing to certain parts of her own body. A shiver made its way up her spine.

"You cannot look at me that way, ma belle," the French witch said with a sigh, "It is already so difficult to control myself around you, if you continue to look at me like that, I cannot be 'eld responsible for what I may do—or the pleasure it brings."

The brunette quickly looked away. She was so tired of blushing. Her entire face was hot and she wished she could remove her head from her neck and dunk it in a bucket of ice for awhile so that it could cool down.

"I'm so sorry," Hermione said, though it was hard to hear because she had averted her head so far away. Fleur's soft hand grazed her cheek, gently pulling the brunette's face towards her.

"Do not be sorry, 'ermione. Not at all," she spoke softly and sweetly, "J'adore when you look at me that way. And to know that—well, to know that it is really you looking at me like that...it means so much to me. Please do not punish yourself for it. Blame the Veela in me. She is ravenous and out of control and it is becoming too 'ard to contain 'er as it is. When she dies down, I don't want to spend a single moment without you looking at me that way."

The French woman placed the lightest of kisses to Hermione's lips, making the brunette's eyes flutter shut at the sweetness of it. It was much unlike their first kiss. But what it lacked in passion and desire, it made up for in significance and promise.

"'Ow about you finish your breakfast and then we will go to the markets. Get out of this stuffy old 'ouse for awhile. Get some fresh air. Ça te dit?" Fleur changed the subject, trying to lighten the load of the heaviness that was palpable about the room.

"Yes. I think I'd like that."

**Translations:**

**je m'en fiche = I don't care/I don't give a damn**

**mon ange = my angel**

**n'est-ce pas = Right?/Isn't that so?**

**Bien sûr que oui = yes, of course**

**Ma douce = my sweet**

**En fait = in fact**

**Non. Ce n'est pas comme ça = No. It is not like that**.

**t'sais = ya know?**

**Je ne sais pas = I don't know**

**Ouais, enfin = Yeah, well**

**Désolée = Sorry**

**J'adore = I adore**

**Ça te dit = You up for it?**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying to make this story different from the majority of the Fleurmione fics currently out there. I didn't want to do another "they are mates and bonded for life, and if one dies so does the other" thing because it's really overdone. However, I AM using the word "mate." I hope it is clear that it does not mean mate in the traditional sense most of you have come to know. I will clarify just to be sure we are all on the same page. When Fleur says "mate" she means in the very base, biological sense that they are two people coming together for breeding purposes only. The Veela in my story have many mates and there is no such thing as bonding and mating with only one person for life. It is simply a means to produce offspring. In the last chapter, Fleur had talked a little about why it was she thought that her elders had always taught them to never love growing up. She stated something that sounded as if the Veela dies when their mate dies but what she meant was that she believed that they force themselves to not love in order to protect themselves. That if the Veela allowed themselves to feel for their mates, then when the inevitable happened and the mate finally died, so would a metaphorical piece of their heart. And they would just have to keep going through that same thing over and over again with each new mate until they had nothing left to feel and truly became monsters. They don't die if they don't get their mate or if their mate dies. That connection does not exist. There is no bond or "pull" thereof. Only the thrall which is like a drug that is typically used for a Veela to get what she wants. And they often want to "mate" and make the little baby Veelas.
> 
> Some of the info that gets revealed in this chapter may stir up a little confusion. So, I am going to point this out ahead of time to try to prevent that from happening. I have decided that Fleur's mother and grandmother are not—in any way—high ranking officials in the Veela hierarchy. They are respected and wealthy members, but they do not and will not have any leadership roles. Don't have the expectation that they will be at any point in time.
> 
> Disclaimer: It's all JK's. But I thank her dearly for letting me play every once in awhile.

**Chapter 6**

Onto the face of the brunette who was standing before a brusque but hopeful shopkeep there had crept a look of indefatigable shame. The kind of look that imminently forewarns of a non-native that is about to once again try their hand at French.

"Combien coûte—er...la pomme?" Hermione asked, holding an apple out to the shopkeep. He countered her stare with that of a Frenchman who was well-accustomed to the ineptitude of foreigners but who seemed to die a little inside with each new encounter he was forced to have with one.

"C'est quatre-vingt quinze centimes," the man sighed.

Hermione hesitated. He had spoken so fast and her memory was a bit rusty when it came to French numbers. Not to mention he was waiting—rather impatiently—which put quite a bit of pressure on her to solve the problem quicker than perhaps she was able to at that moment. She pushed the coins around in the palm of her hand, reciting the numbers she knew in French from one to twenty. For some reason fifty-nine was as high as she could remember and nothing she had counted up to that point had sounded even remotely close to what the man had asked for.

And then there was the fact that she was still so hungry. They had stopped to eat at a cafe quite awhile ago when they had first arrived at the market, but Fleur had been so eager to venture out that they uncustomarily rushed through what little breakfast they had. Hermione hardly had the time to properly sate the hunger. And the apple at the current shop she found herself stumbling upon by chance had looked so unbelievably delicious. The large red ball of sustenance had sent her stomach into an uproarious song the minute she laid eyes on it.

"Merci beaucoup," Fleur's insouciant voice drifted past the English witch's ear as a long slender hand reached out to give the shopkeep the appropriate change, "Come, mon trésor. There is much to see!"

The blond dragged Hermione out of the shop with a final wave to the shopkeep who was relieved to see them finally go. A few blocks down there was another little shop full of various odds and ends. But one thing in particular immediately grabbed the English witch's eye the moment they entered. A silver necklace sat perched on a stand near an open window near the entrance. The little silver bird pendant dangling from the moderately thick chain had red eyes so fastidiously cut as if made from the finest of rubies and they glimmered radiantly in the sunlight that streamed through the open windows. Hermione reached a hand out to touch, feeling rather drawn to the odd piece of jewelry.

"That is a Hen Harrier. It 'as been the symbol of the Delacour family for centuries," Fleur explained, doing well in her attempt to annunciate her H's. She stepped close to the English witch, joining her in admiration of the precious jewelry.

"Then why is it so easily found in this muggle shop? It doesn't seem very wise for a wizarding family to put themselves on display so openly," Hermione wondered aloud, eyes still locked on the silvery distraction as she took a bite of her apple.

"Many people of France used to believe that seeing a 'arrier perched on a 'ouse was a sign that three people would die," Fleur answered with a somber tone. It bothered her to broach even the slightest negativity in regards to her clan. But it was the truth and she had no desire to lie to the girl. Hermione took another loud bite from her apple as the French woman continued, "In the Veela culture we believe something similar. 'Arriers are a symbol of death, oui, but they represent the death of the mind, spirit, and body of a willing 'ost. And from that death, comes the birth of a new mind, spirit, and soul, carrying inside it the most important pieces from the one that was lost along the way. You see, we are unable to love in the romantic sense, but nothing can compare to the love a Veela mother 'as for 'er daughter. We are fierce and protective. The 'arrier is a symbol of this. And that being so, it is customary to pass along that symbol throughout the Delacour line of daughters. To remind 'er where she comes from. To remind 'er 'hoo she is meant to be. To remind 'er that she is truly loved and protected until the mother’s dying breath and that one day she too will know what it is like to feel and do the same for 'er daughter."

The French witch plucked the necklace from the stand on which it sat and held it gingerly in her hands. Without delay, blue eyes snapped up with a sharp ferocity as if she had just had a thought strike the inner recesses of her mind like a bolt of lightening on a sandy beach. In an instant, she was off to the counter to pay for the necklace and the next she was back standing in front of Hermione. Fleur held the striking adornment up before the girl and made to reach under the bushy brown hair in order to clasp it in place around her neck. Her voice was soft and uncertain as she spoke, "I know that I 'ave drastically changed your life and that I 'ave put you in a 'ard position. That every moment you spend with me is dangerous and unpredictable and I cannot express 'ow sorry I am for bringing you into this. I cannot give you love in the traditional sense. And I cannot accurately express the gratitude I feel for your patience in the way I wish to because the intensity of my passion for you 'as the most grim of consequences. But you should know that you are very special to me, Docteure Granger. I 'ope that you will wear this and that it will serve as a constant reminder of just 'ow special you are. And that you will know, that for as long as you want it, you 'ave my full protection from whatever may come."

Hermione found the gesture incredibly sweet. Mind you, she had dated before—though it had been a very long time ago. Her first relationship was with Ron Weasley and he most certainly would have never even remotely thought to do something as kind and thoughtful as this. Their relationship only existed out of pure necessity—because of the immense pressure placed upon them to assure that it ended up that way. Neither one of them were truly happy as anything other than friends. Fortunately, that's how Hermione stumbled about her second relationship when she quickly found she had an even deeper connection with Ron's cute younger sister. Now, doing special little things that would frequently take Hermione's breath away was right up Ginny Weasley's alley. And more often than not, Hermione found herself thinking how good of a couple they would have made had they both not come out of the war so unequivocally changed. Whatever there had been between them had ended on better terms than it probably should have, but Hermione had not allowed herself the luxury of any further exploration into the romantic aspect of her life thereafter. Her books were her life. Her study was her lover. And she found that not even they had made her as weak in the knees as Fleur Delacour was so effortlessly capable of doing.

Once the necklace was securely fastened around her neck, Hermione mustered up all the courage she could find and placed a prolonged kiss to the blond's cheek. The kind of kiss that provokes a certain tremulousness in how difficult it becomes with each passing second to pull away in a way that cannot—will not—be ignored. Her heart lept up into her chest. The world started to feel as if it were spinning out of control. Then, without further notice, they both disappeared with a faint pop.

The only evidence they had even been there at all was a half-eaten apple that had fallen forgotten to the floor.

* * *

Hermione's first thought when she finally came back to her senses is how crazy it was that something as simple as a kiss on the cheek could make her feel so disoriented and out of place. When she pulled away from the French witch she soon realized that what she felt wasn't due only to the intense emotion that was aroused from having kissed Fleur. It was clear that something else had happened during that time. They were no longer at the markets. Instead, they were standing in a dimly lit room that seemed to even out-lavish Delacour manor. And at the very least some of those feelings Hermione had felt were the direct result of apparition—or something most certainly close to it.

"Fleur! Where have you taken us?" The English witch called out, swatting at the other girl's shoulder.

"This was not me, ma mie," the blond answered, her eyes growing big as saucers as she looked around the mysterious new dwelling. It seemed familiar to the blond, but she wasn't quite sure how or why—a side effect, she guessed, of having been apparated without any forewarning.

"But of course it was not. It was me," a voice replied coming from a shadowed figure in the darkest corner of the room, "Though, Mademoiselle Delacour, I must say I was not expecting you. We 'ave been working on a new summoning charm—must not 'ave all the kinks worked out yet. I meant to summon your mother so that I could discuss your current behavior with 'er—but no matter, this will do, I suppose."

The room suddenly lit up so that one by one the shadowy figures became visible. The first was Adriana. Hermione was unable to withhold her slight frown. The other was an older woman with dirty blond hair that blended well among the many grey strands peppered throughout about her head and a pair of intensely focused deep-set eyes.

"Grand Matriarch!" Fleur called out in surprise, bowing respectfully to the elder woman. The formality by which she addressed the woman implied that they were not at all related.

"None of that, now. Come closer, child. We 'ave much to discuss," the Grand Matriarch shrugged off. She waved them over with a well-manicured hand.

Hermione clutched instinctually to the blond woman's arm, allowing Fleur to lead them closer to the other pair of women, but unsure of whether or not she should be doing so. As intimidating as the Veelas were, she knew this was a good opportunity to learn more about their culture and she was interested in learning as much as she could regardless of how much they chose to discuss in front of her. She understood that they were a private bunch and most likely wouldn't go into too much detail. But she hoped that at the very least she would be able to analyze their interactions with one another. After all, anything was better than nothing and there was so much she didn't know.

"Now then, first order of business. I need you to sort out whatever issue there is between you two because I will not tolerate this dysfunction any longer. You," she said pointedly to Fleur, "I'm tired of following you around and cleaning up your messes. You are young and stubborn and make rash decisions without thinking of 'ow it will affect your clan and other clans that you are allied to. You," she said pointing at Adriana, "I am tired of you coming 'ere whining and complaining all the time about everything. You are a Matriarch. It is time you act like one. If you cannot, then you should be challenged and relieved of your position. Now, talk."

Adriana quickly jumped in to defend herself.

"Grand Matriarch. She has violated one of the most important rules among our people. She stole one of my mates from me. She took what was mine and not only that, she set the human free. There is someone out there right now that knows some of our secrets wandering around telling God knows who! According to our laws, she should be punished!"

"Did you do this, Fleur?" The Grand Matriarch queried.

"Oui, I did. But that 'appened before our clans were officially allied. And the girl 'as been taken care of. I assure you, our secrets are safe. I 'andled it personally," the blond answered, being rather vague in her response, "I am deeply sorry for stealing your mate from you, Adriana. I would never do that to you again. Not now that you are our sister clan. I do not want this to get between our alliance. I 'ope to maintain a friendship with you."

The dark haired woman crossed her arms and huffed.

"There, you see? She apologized. It lives in the past and it should stay in the past. A wise Matriarch would rise above such childish antics. Let it go," The grand matriarch said calmly to Adriana, "Now, is there something else or 'ave you not wasted my time enough?"

"She got in a fight with a rival clan. Her sister was wounded," Adriana said, glaring at Fleur. Then, she smiled a cheshire-like grin as if she had divulged some huge secret that might bring a most fortuitous end to that of whom she still considered to be a dire enemy.

"Hm, yes. This is a problem," the older woman pondered, "Do you know which clan they belong to?"

Fleur straightened up. She held herself resolutely even though she felt anything and everything but.

"Non. But they were small in numbers, maybe 10 or 15 of them total. If I 'ad to guess, I would say they came from somewhere far south," the blond gave as much information as she could on the unidentified newcomers. But there wasn't much to tell. The time she had spent with them was very brief and had happened too quickly for her to gather any more intel than she had.

"That is rather troublesome. They would 'ave known these lands were taken," The Grand Matriarch thought out loud to herself.

"They did seem a little off when we ran into them. As if they were fleeing from something. They were extremely jumpy. Which I suppose is 'ow a spell was misfired into Gabrielle," Fleur recounted.

"Oui. They would not leave their lands and wander into our territory without a good reason. And it is not them we should be focusing so much on. It is whatever pushed them up this way that is worrisome," the older woman said cautiously, "Fleur, you will need to discuss this matter with your Matriarch and tell 'er to see me at once. Adriana, you should send a team to investigate. Keep a stronger 'old on our southeastern borders."

The dark-haired woman nodded her head in affirmation, but she stayed in place eager to hear the older woman tear into Fleur for her blunders—of which she had still yet to do. When it was clear that Adriana was not leaving, the Grand Matriarch sighed.

"Are you still 'ere? Be gone, child!" She said firmly to the unwanted woman, who finally took the hint and stumbled over herself to leave. She apparated away as fast as she could without another word.

Once she was sure Adriana was indeed gone, the Grand Matriarch finally stood from her chair and approached Hermione and Fleur. She was much shorter than she appeared while sitting. But her very essence was so overpowering that it gave the appearance that she was much larger than she was and the brunette felt as if the woman were towering over them. A chill went down Hermione's back. She clung tighter to Fleur. Her hand idly played with the necklace around her neck and she sighed at the slight comfort brought to her in doing so.

"I wish that I could figure out what is off about my new summoning charm. Not only 'as it brought me the wrong person, I see it 'as also brought more than one wrong person. Interesting," the older woman said, circling the younger couple, "And 'hoo are you?"

Hermione wasn't sure if she should answer or not. She didn't want to do anything to blow their cover. And she was smart enough to know that this woman was apparently in the highest of ranks. If she found out what was happening between she and Fleur, it would most likely lead to the worst of consequences. Luckily, she didn't have to say a word. Fleur answered for her.

"This is my current mate," she spoke boldly, but if one were listening close enough, the slightest of hesitation could be heard in her tone.

"Oui. The great 'ermione Granger," the old woman said, staring deeply into the brunette's eyes, "You are taking a great risk choosing someone so well known to the Wizarding world, but perhaps we can make this work in our favor seeing as the Ministry 'as made it clear they are no friend to the Veela. There is no doubt she is very strong and 'ighly intelligent. She will make for excellent bébés. And it is nice to see you 'ave finally settled down and taken a proper mate. I will admit you 'ad me concerned when you refused to take others. Most Veela your age 'ave a number of children by now. I like you and your family, Madmoiselle Delacour. You are a great asset to the Veela cause. It would be a shame to 'ave to follow custom and terminate someone like you simply because you refuse to mate. But now I can see why it took you so long. I don't imagine Mademoiselle Granger was an easy chase. I will need to think on this—the repercussions of this—before you finish 'er though. So do go slow for the time being until I can figure out the worth of this situation, will you?"

Fleur nodded her head in acceptance. She felt very uncomfortable and pulled Hermione closer to her. It was then the older woman noticed the brunette's hands fidgeting fervently at something familiar around her neck. A soft, wrinkled hand forced Hermione to release the pendant as it grasped it gently; a single thumb rubbed over the ruby eyes.

"Ah, the 'en 'arrier," she said. The old woman brought her head between Hermione's and Fleur's. Her words came out in barely a whisper, "L'attachement est très dangereux, ma petite. Elle va mourir. Ou les deux vont mourir."

The older woman's hands squeezed tightly to both of the younger girl's shoulders. She closed her eyes and as she did a thick cloud of purple smoke slowly engulfed the couple.

When the smoke cleared, Fleur's bedroom came into view. The blond turned the English witch towards her and rested their foreheads together tenderly.

"We are in big trouble, ma belle."

* * *

**Translations:**

**1) C'est quatre-vingt quinze centimes = It is .95 cents.**

**2) L'attachement est très dangereux, ma petite. Elle va mourir. Ou les deux vont mourir. = Attachment is very dangerous, my little one. She will die. Or both of you will die.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to shake things up this chapter. Enjoy.
> 
> Disclaimer: Still the same as always.

**Chapter 7**

A room.

Four walls. A roof. A door. Some windows. The volatility in meaning that lies in such a thing permeated the air like a light mist in the fogginess of the morning. To some a room would be as enviable to their life as a port in the storm. To others it might feel like yet another form of needless confinement. For Hermione, however, it was a little bit of both.

It had been a week since their encounter with the Grand Matriarch and as per usual the English witch had been left to her own devices within the confines of Fleur's bedroom. The routine that had formed thereafter had been relatively regular ever since: wake up, eat breakfast brought to her by one of two blond witches, Fleur would kiss her cheek before leaving for the day on some random assignment, and then she would return at the same time each evening, signaling that it was time for bed only to wake up and start all over again. The only contact she had with the outside world was Fleur and Gabrielle who would pop by every now and again and bring her some new books or a nice meal to eat. It was a daunting task—not being restless. But Hermione was well aware of the repercussions of strolling about so casually beyond the walls that kept her safe.

It was difficult to stay put in a house full of secrets just waiting to be uncovered. Fleur had instructed her on multiple occasions that while the others would respect the blond's claim on Hermione—in light of their courtship—it was still too dangerous for her to wander Delacour Manor alone. It was difficult pretending to be the house pet of a magical creature who was expected by her elders to mate and kill. And while danger was something the brunette was obstinately drawn to, she had not taken the blond's warning lightly. But restlessness still remained a problem. And it would continue to be a problem until the day she could walk away from all of this without the worry of death looming over her. If only it were as simple as just apparating away. Or better yet, if only it were as easy as walking out the front door. She certainly couldn't do either of those things. If she did, it would make it seem as if Fleur weren't truly mating with her. And if that were ever even an implication, Hermione would soon find herself hunted by a large number of predatory Veela.

The words "predatory Veela" sent a chill up her spine. She couldn't even fathom how that would end. All that thrall floating around, messing with her head. Fleur's thrall on its own was enough to turn everything about the girl into mush. Add another forty or fifty thrall-emitting Veela to that equation and she'd be dead within the hour. Of course, that's assuming there are only forty or fifty Veela women in the Delacour clan. That's also assuming that only forty or fifty of them would want to hunt her down. Hermione didn't know the actual count. She knew it couldn't have been less than that, but the possibility was high that there were more—an armys-worth more. So she would just have to live with the fact that Fleur's bedroom would be her home for the time being until they could come up with a better plan to covertly get Hermione out of there alive.

She ran her hand through the warm water streaming into the large porcelain tub. She often found herself here. Admiring of the way the light shined in brightly through the large window. The French witch seemed very fond of them, given how many times Hermione had encountered such a thing in her time spent with the blond. It was as if the woman wished for everywhere she went to be lit in the brightness of the sun—a staunch contrast to the darkness she exuded when describing her creature heritage. Nevertheless, Hermione thought it was a wonderful place to read.

Normally she would have never even considered being naked in front of a window so large that the whole world could see her in all her glory. But this was the one and only exception. She had successfully deluded herself into believing that she did it for beauty and the remoteness such a dwelling as Delacour Manor held. For outside there was nothing but miles and miles of open field. And at the very edge of that field began the start of a large, dark array of trees that reminded her of the Forbidden Forrest she and her friends use to adventure about back at Hogwarts. No buildings. No people. No creatures aside from the Veela who lived there. And even they were wrapped up in one thing or another. Who would even see her? In all honesty, one reason she kept the curtains open on a deeply subconscious level might very well be that she hoped for someone to see her. So if there were anyone out there, they would know she was there and in need of help.

Though that hope was a long shot as ambiguous as it was, which is why it remained subconscious and no action would ever be brought of it. She hadn't so much as considered running away. For all she knew, what she saw through that window could have been scenery that was charmed into existence for tactical reasons such as circumvention or dissimulation—making it no more real than you or me. Regardless of whether or not it was real, it was an indisputable fact that the Veela were a very secluded and private race. They were smart enough to do whatever it took to keep their nest safe and out of the public eye. That being so, Hermione had no idea where she was or where she would go from there. And she highly doubted the ease of which it would take to try and escape. Not that she really even wanted to. It was more a thought than anything substantial.

She reflected on this for a moment longer. Fleur had given back her wand. So she could have apparated if she felt so bold as to do so. But she was also well aware of the sensitivity of her current standing and having heard the stories the French witch told about Veela persistence, she was not overly eager to test Veela nature. Hermione would very much have liked to be the girl who accidentally stumbled upon a Veela nest and lived—no matter what it took to ensure her survival. Not to mention, the French witch had seemed very sincere in her desire to help the English girl out of the situation into which she had been unceremoniously dragged. And she trusted that Fleur would be true to her word when she said she would protect the brunette. But nothing would stop Hermione from staring out into the fields through that window and hoping. That and the scene before her of the miles of land that appeared as if it were infested with a most gorgeous bunch of foreign blue flowers was absolutely stunning every time she found herself in moments such as these.

What a strange sight, she thought to herself, a flower in bloom in the middle of winter.

Though Hermione was in this intricate position, she would not allow her time spent among the Veela to be all for naught. She soaked up every minute she spent in their presence to study and learn about their culture. Had she not been so respectful of their desire for privacy, she would have been wildly tempted to write down and possibly publish all of her findings during her stay. They were a fascinating bunch. Surely the world deserved to know about their history. She thought it a shame they were so secretive. Maybe if everyone knew more about them, there wouldn't be so much hostility towards their kind. As much as she'd been told of Veela culture, Hermione did not believe them to be evil—or at least not any more evil than humanity or any other creature race. If anything, they seemed misunderstood. Especially to themselves.

It was evident to the brunette that the Veela ran their operation much like a military would in a war torn country, being separated by groups. Groups that were determined by familial bond. At the head of each group there was a leader known as the Matriarch. But, Hermione had found that, due to certain events, the Veela had felt the need to no longer be as segregated. And this desire to be more united as a whole created a rank above the Matriarch—the Grand Matriarch as she is known—who serves to be the intermediary between the separate clans.

Hermione wasn't too sure who exactly they were fighting. Sometimes they gave the impression it was other Veela clans and other times it seemed as if there was something even bigger there that Hermione couldn't even begin to understand. Whoever or whatever that may be, they were most definitely at war with someone or something. Fleur was sent out every day all day on these missions her Matriarch had assigned to her. And the exhaustion that overtook her every night when she arrived home hinted that it was more than just a casual job she had been sent off to do while she was away. Then again, Hermione couldn't ever be too certain of these things. It's not like Fleur ever spoke about what it was she spent her days doing. And Hermione never pushed her to tell, so it remained a relative mystery.

The English witch did find that it made her very uncomfortable to know that Fleur was out there putting herself in harms way. The brunette quite liked the company of the French witch and wished to maintain what contact she had with her. Granted, there were feelings there that she purposely ignored for the time being—still very unsure as to whether they were her own or if they were there as a direct result of the Veela's thrall. But that did not deter her from enjoying the time actively spent in the French witch's presence.

Fleur was kind. She was thoughtful. She went to great lengths to assure that Hermione was as comfortable as possible given her circumstances. It would be near impossible not to be charmed by the beautiful blond. The English witch strongly felt that had certain aspects of the relationship between them not been so complicated, she would want to attempt to become closer to the blue-eyed beauty. There was a closeness that had already developed between the two that she had not readily felt before with any other being. Her heart began to beat harder in her chest. It always did when she thought of what was happening between her and Fleur. The way she laughed. The way she looked at her as if she were the only person on the planet. The way her hands felt as they touched any part of her body. Why did everything about her life have to be so complex?

Hermione adjusted herself in the bathtub. Once she was in a more comfortable position, her hand played leisurely at the necklace around her neck. A welcomed distraction from her thoughts. She looked to the clock that ticked away on the vanity. It was later than usual and Fleur still hadn't returned home. An unfamiliar feeling welled-up in the pit of her stomach. It wasn't like the blond to be late. Their daily routine had been very consistent—up until now. Fleur would come home, they would eat, and then talk about a whole bunch of nothing before going to bed.

Being a scholar who bases all rationale on fact and logic, Hermione wasn't one to normally cave to the wild ideologies of human intuition, but she couldn't help but feel as if something wasn't right. She twisted the plug allowing the water to drain and stepped out of the tub. A towel hung from the door and she carefully made her way to it to dry herself off.

Suddenly, a series of loud bangs and clatters echoed throughout the room. Something was not right at all.

Hermione quickly wrapped herself in one of Fleur's robes. And as if she had forgotten how she was to behave while staying in Delacour Manor, she ran off out of the room and down the stairs to investigate.

The closer she came to the sound, the more it changed from that of things breaking to that of a swarm of Veela muttering in French. When Hermione reached the source of the commotion, the living room looked as if a tornado had come through. Vases and lamps lay destroyed on the ground. Picture frames were turned down and smashed on the tables. There were so many women packed into the small space that Hermione's first guess was that maybe they had unintentionally been the cause of the destruction around them when they had gathered there—muttering and fumbling about. Then she realized they were all circled around something in the middle of the room. Hermione was not able to see what it was through the sea of bodies. But she froze the moment she heard her name.

"'Ermione," the feeble voice called out from the mass of worried Veela.

It belonged to Fleur. And she sounded so weak and frail. Hermione started to push through the crowd, trying to get to the center from where the words had come. Eventually, she got close enough that she could see a body laying on the floor through the throng of arms and legs that still blocked her from her target. However, she saw a blanket of red coating the woman that reinforced her determination to push through the last of the remaining Veela.

"Excuse me! I'm a doctor! Let me through!" Hermione called out, shoving the others out of her way. She wasn't sure if anyone there could even understand her but she repeated herself nonetheless, "She needs help! I'm a doctor!"

When they let her through, what she saw before her drew an involuntary gasp from her lips. Fleur's body looked as if it had been mangled. There were cuts and what appeared to be stab wounds all across her abdomen. Her face was bruised and the left side of her lip slightly swollen. The woman looked to be holding onto the cusp of death with every inch of her life. Her lips perked up into the faintest of smiles. And then, as soon as she saw the English witch, those crystal blue eyes started to disappear behind heavy eyelids as if they could no longer bear to stay open. Hermione immediately fell down to her knees beside the French witch and checked her vitals. Her heartbeat was near unresponsive. Her breathing had slowed to almost nothing.

The brunette reached at her hip for her wand and immediately cursed herself for having left it upstairs in the bedroom. Her first thought was to cast the summoning charm. But Accio required a great deal of thought and her mind was not clear enough in that moment to picture anything other than Fleur's lifeless body laying before her. So she reverted to the most base of medical practices to assure the blond's survival.

Two fingers pinched the French woman's nose shut. Hermione's lips gently cascaded down to Fleur's and she pushed as much air as she could into the other girl's mouth through her own. After several attempts to get the blond breathing, Hermione switched gears and released the woman's nose. Two eager hands pumped diligently at the French woman's chest, clinging desperately to the life that once lived there.

This continued in uninterrupted cycles for 30 minutes—until Hermione's lungs ached and her arms felt like jelly. But nothing she did opened those eyes back to life. A single tear fell from her eye. Her head dropped to the blond's unmoving chest. There was no trace of a heartbeat.

And it was then she realized that in any and every legal sense of the word, Fleur Delacour was dead.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an instance in this chapter where a French-speaking person speaks in English at a time when it wouldn't seem like a logical thing for them to do. Without giving away any future details, please note that sometimes I write things a certain way very delibrately. This character speaking English is very intentional.
> 
> Disclaimer: All the same still applies.

**Chapter 8**

A great man once said, "It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more."

It was true. There was only one thing Hermione feared in that moment and it was precisely that. The unknown. In fact, there had been an abundance of unknowns in the wake of Fleur's legally declared death. And all of them were equally terrifying.

But she was Hermione Granger. Winner of wars. Savior of the wizarding world. She had fought Death Eaters, Dementors, and the worst scum of the Earth including—but not limited to—Dolores Umbridge, Voldemort, and Bellatrix LaStrange. She had lost so many loved ones to the battle against the Dark Lord and faced so many unknowns as a direct result of those deaths. And yet, here she sat at the mercy of the Veela's death. And still she feared it so. So much so, that it didn't matter how many times she'd stood face to face with it. It didn't matter how many different ways it presented itself. The fear of that which was unknown would always remain prominent all the same. Even a savior could feel fear. And often times it is that very fear that drives a person to act as they do.

Most would say—and Dumbledore would have equally agreed—it is what you do with that fear that defines you. Hermione didn't know whether or not that was true. She felt as if it would be too difficult for her to know what did and didn't define her when so much of who she thought she was had been chipped away by war and loss. And she didn't feel as if further characterizing who she was would do much of anything for anyone given the current circumstances. It wouldn't save her from the swarm of Veela around her. It surely wouldn't bring Fleur back.

Hermione didn't need definition. She didn't need to understand the ins and outs of why it was she felt the way she felt and did the things she did. She was scared. She was scared because she didn't know what Fleur's death meant. For her—or for Fleur. Right now, Hermione needed sanity. She needed to stay grounded. If she had any hope of survival—if Fleur had any hope of recovery—now was not the time for panic. Which is why she pressed herself to focus on that which she did know.

For one, she knew from the Tales of the Three Brothers and her own personal experiences that death was—for all intents and purposes—inescapable. Once you crossed a certain line, there was no turning back. And no amount of magic, hope, or wishing could change that.

However, Hermione also knew from her medical training that there was a fine line between dead and, well, DEAD. All her expensive and extensive medical training had taught her that should one persist with resuscitation—even after a patient was declared legally dead—one would have up to forty minutes time to successfully restart the heart. Because the brain—the magically wonderful bastard that it was—would indeed live on for a short while after the heart stopped beating. Though it should be noted that this finding was set at a fifty percent success rate. It was by no means a full proof plan. Still, a fifty-fifty chance of reviving the blond was better than none. Hermione had ultimately decided that if she had any chance of medically toeing that line, she would take it. It was only the positive portion of that fifty-fifty probability that truly mattered anyways. That is what would keep her grounded. That's what would keep her sane.

So yes, she needed sanity. Yes, she needed to stay grounded. But there was one thing in particular Hermione needed—even more so than those other things combined. Her wand.

Much to her dismay, however, she was surrounded by a sea of emotionally unstable bodies. Hostile ones that wouldn't trust too many sudden moves from a stranger like Hermione. Given this obstacle, she knew the only way she would get her wand as quickly as she needed it was to use the summoning charm. And while she hadn't used very much wandless magic—and she certainly hadn't been very practiced at wandlessly summoning her wand—she knew it was possible. She'd executed similar spells wandlessly a few times before. Her chances of pulling this off successfully were about as much as her reviving the French witch from the dead. And since she was willing to gamble with the outcome of that then surely she could with this too. She was Fleur's only hope. At the very least, she had to try.

Hermione closed her eyes and cleared her mind of everything except her wand. She tuned out the large number of Veela gossiping wildly in a flurry around her. There was no death. There was no Fleur. Only Hermione and her wand. A single bead of sweat fell down her brow as she concentrated with everything she had in her.

Accio! She called out in her mind.

Nothing happened.

Accio! She repeated in her mind over and over again. Almost chanting the word silently as if it were a ceremonial godsend.

In a matter of minutes, as if by magic, the wand appeared next to her face. However, it wasn't the summoning charm that had produced it. A delicate manicured hand held tightly to the handle, offering it out cooperatively to the brunette. Hermione's eyes jumped up to the familiar sky blue. They weren't the eyes she longed to see—and that made her heart sink ever so slightly. They appeared unusually calm given the criticality of the situation. But there burned a certain ferocity and confidence that set fire to the English witch's very skin.

"Thank you, Gabrielle," Hermione said as she took the wand from the girl.

The young French witch said nothing in return. She only gave but a nod in acknowledgement. What was there to say? Hermione knew how close the two sisters were. She could only guess how distressed Gabrielle was feeling. If she were anything like her older sister there's no doubt she desired nothing more in that moment than for Fleur's recovery. Which is why she had brought Hermione's wand in the first place. A sure sign that despite her current standing and regardless of her intent or pursuit of freedom, Hermione was trusted in this moment to use the most powerful weapon at her disposal in front of a gathering of creatures who would not normally be so fond of such an idea. And for that, the brunette was infinitely grateful.

Because more than anything, she too wished for the elder blond to live. More than her own freedom. More than her own safety. Granted, they had their differences. And there was still much she did not know about the French witch. And danger seemed to follow Fleur Delacour around like a lost puppy. But that didn't mean she was a bad person. Nor did it mean that she deserved to die.

Hermione placed the tip of the wand to Fleur's unmoving chest and her free hand hovered over the woman's well-defined sternum. She refocused all her magical energy into her wand until a slight jolt left the wand and entered Fleur's body, making it jump from the floor. After the shock, Hermione placed her hand down to the chest before her and channeled her magic in a way that was meant to further stabilize her patient. She repeated this same procedure over and over again. Hoping with each jolt that it would be the final one to bring Fleur's body back to life. All the Veela watched with rapt attention, hoping the same for their fallen sister.

The longer Fleur laid there unresponsive, the harder Hermione's heart started to beat and the more desperate she became in her attempt to bring the blond back to life. Her movements soon became erratic and less coordinated as the reality began to finally sink in that the person she was trying to save might very well be beyond saving. But it just couldn't be. There had been a chance. A chance that she would live. That had to have been enough. Water gently blurred her vision as a single tear fell to the chest that still rested unmoving beneath her hands.

Hermione leaned down close to the blond woman's ear. She was only mere seconds away from being forced to accept defeat.

"Please," she sobbed softly.

She clenched her eyes shut to mollify the tears threatening to flow forth. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in the tips of her fingers as she held the wand firmly to Fleur's chest. She focused all she was into one more burst of magic that sent a convulsive shock through the blond's body. And as her other hand came down for the stabilization part of her ritual that she had all but exhausted, she heard a light gasp of breath as if it were being taken for the first time.

Then, a crystal blue she thought she'd never see again met Hermione's worried gaze. A sense of relief oozed through the English witch's body like hot magma down a steep volcano. She couldn't help herself. In an instant, her lips collided with the back-from-the-dead blond's.

"Bonjour to you as well, mon rêve," Fleur replied weakly from her limp place in Hermione's arms. A hint of a playful smirk appearing with a twitch of her lips

Hermione released a well-deserved amused laugh and gave the blond one more deep kiss. The English witch had never felt such relief in her life. And kissing the French woman made it so much more real. It overwhelmed her. It exhausted her. But most notably, it made her realize just how important the French witch was to her. And knowing something as raw and immaterial as that was almost more terrifying than the unknown.

* * *

Hermione sat in a chair beside the sleeping French witch and stroked a stray blonde hair back behind the woman's ear. She found herself wondering how a person could die, come back to life, and then still look so well put together as if nothing out of the ordinary had even happened. Only someone like Fleur could die and still look as if she belonged on a magazine cover. Hermione released a long sigh.

She had been doing that for the past few hours now. Sighing. It started shortly after the Veelas helped her move Fleur's body upstairs to her bed. And since then, Hermione felt as if she could run a marathon but at the same time as if she needed to sleep for a week straight. She sighed once more to try and expel all of the excess energy that had built up inside of her over worrying so much as to whether or not the blonde would live. Though it clearly didn't work as much as she thought because she hadn't yet stopped.

Upon bringing the wounded woman to the room, Hermione had immediately kicked into full healer mode. She had applied every healing spell she knew. She had given the woman as many potions as was deemed medically acceptable. She had tended to the blonde's open wounds with various salves and creams. Under the English witch's watch, Fleur Delecour would be more than well taken care of. And the more Hermione tended to the woman, she thought about the possible string of events that may have led up to this situation. She knew Fleur was rash and impossibly headstrong. She just didn't understand how the blonde could be so careless. It reminded her greatly of Harry and Ron and how they would always run head first into danger as if their own lives were not so much as a thought.

It bothered her, really. How affected she had become by the consequences of this woman's actions. She wanted to scold the blonde—remind her how selfish she was being by not fully considering the impact her decisions had on both of their lives. Though, at the back of her mind, she didn't feel as if it were her place to do so. Now was not the time for those types of conversations anyways. The woman had only just been practically dragged back from the land of the dead. Perhaps they would discuss it in more detail when Fleur was feeling more fully alive.

Suddenly, a loud crack rang out somewhere in the room behind where Hermione sat, causing her to jump a little in her seat.

"Fleur!" A voice screamed out in terror.

What appeared to be an older, more mature version of Fleur and Gabrielle combined rushed to the sickly blonde's bedside, all but shoving Hermione out of the way.

"Maman?" Fleur responded deliriously, still considerably weak and extraordinarily tired.

The strange woman muttered quickly in French. She was in such a tizzy. She would grab at Fleur's cheeks and shake her head one minute and other times she would just stroke at the younger blonde's hair. Then, suddenly, a pair of piercing pale blue eyes met Hermione's. Not in the same way Fleur's would with curiosity and frivolity. But with a burning intensity and purpose as if this woman were on a critical mission and wouldn't allow for any deviation from her goal.

In an instant, before the brunette could even respond, a spell was cast and Hermione's wand was ripped from her hand.

"Go! Go fetch ‘er some water!" The woman commanded of the English witch, waving the confiscated wand in the direction of the bathroom.

Hermione suspected that she wasn't truly being sent away to fetch water. It was evident in the fact that the woman had taken her wand. They were magical, after all, so if water was what she truly needed as urgently as she called for it in that moment, then she would have gotten it the way any other sensible witch or wizard would have—via magic. It was clear she meant for Hermione to leave the room so that she could be alone with her daughter. The English witch understood this need. And as peeved as it made her, it had happened so much lately, she was already used to her wand being taken away unexpectedly anyways. So she headed off to the bathroom in order to give them whatever time they wished to have alone between them.

"What 'ave you gotten yourself into you silly girl!" Hermione heard Fleur's mother call out through the open bathroom door.

"Maman, je suis désolée. I was—" Fleur tried to answer, her voice shaky and course.

"Do not strain yourself, mon biquet. You must save your energy for when the Grand Matriarch arrives. You will need to tell 'er the entire story," the older blonde interrupted, concerned for the state of her daughter's health.

Not wanting to seem as if she was listening in on their conversation, Hermione grabbed a wash bowl from one of the closets and began filling it with warm water. But she was, in fact, listening in, curious as to what the latest visitor might have to say.

"I do not 'ave much time. I was summoned to discuss strategy with the Matriarch. And when I 'eard you had been killed, I almost died there with you. I 'ad to check. To make sure you were okay," the elder Delacour explained, her eyes misted over as if she would start sobbing at any moment, "I cannot believe you went out and almost got yourself killed—en permanence! 'Ave I done that poorly as a mother?! Did I raise you to be so careless?!"

"It is okay, maman. 'Ermione saved me," Fleur responded. Hermione just knew the blonde was looking towards the bathroom. She could practically feel the sultry gaze penetrating her through the door.

"Qui?" Fleur's mother questioned.

"Doctuere 'Ermione Granger. She is the one that I told you saved Gabrielle. And she 'as also saved me."

"Mmm. Oui," the elder blond began, judgement lacing each word, "Listen, Fleur, I've been meaning to talk with you about that."

Interested that the topic of conversation had moved on to her, Hermione turned off the faucet and leaned closer to the door to better hear their quieting voices—no longer caring if she was caught eavesdropping.

"You really need to do something about that girl, mon biquet. You know our laws. She cannot live 'ere forever. And the others. They 'ave noticed. They 'ave been talking. They do not understand why you are not yet with child."

"Maman, I do not wish to 'ave this discussion with you," fleur protested fitfully. Hermione could hear the sheets rustle from how feverishly the younger French witch was moving around.

"You 'ave always been different, ma petite. And I know 'ow 'ard you try to fight it. But these are very dangerous waters you are playing in, child. Especially with one of the most well known witches in the magical world. The minute you are well, you will need to do something about this. It cannot go on this way," her mother told her warningly.

Hermione didn't know what "doing something about it" meant exactly, but she guessed that it wouldn't be anything favorable to her. She quickly began to feel rather offended. It's not as if she had asked Fleur to be here. It was odd that she hadn't really tried that hard to escape, but that was a different matter entirely. And she was still working on fully fleshing out why that was. But that didn't detract from the fact that had she never been brought here to begin with, they wouldn't have had to "do" anything about her because her presence wouldn't have ever been an issue in the first place. It wasn't fair that she had to suffer for someone else's poor decision. It wasn't fair of them to talk about her as if she were a dog about to be put down while she was right there in the other room. And she didn't know Fleur's mother, but she was damn tired of everyone else discussing her fate without her.

She grabbed the wash bin full of water and a clean rag and pushed her way through the bathroom door; making a show of her return into the bedroom. She set the wash bin on the table next to Fleur's bed and began dunking the rag in the water and ringing it out. Her grand entrance had stopped the conversation, but it was up to her to express how she felt. And the problem was, she didn't quite know where to start. There was so much that had gone unsaid lately that when the opportunity to finally let it all out presented itself, Hermione was at a complete loss for what to say.

Fleur's mother looked down on the brunette with utmost disdain. The English witch could practically feel her eyes burning through her skull. The intimidation of it all making it even harder to think.

In attempt to escape the woman's intense focus so she could gather her thoughts, Hermione went back to caring for Fleur, carefully dabbing the damp rag to the woman's forehead. But she wouldn't cease to be the center of Mademoiselle Delacour's attention so easily. As the brunette leaned over, the hen harrier necklace dangled precariously about her neck as if it had a mind of its own and wished to be seen at that very moment. The elder blonde noticed almost immediately and reached out to further inspect the pendant that had been a symbol of her family for centuries.

"She is not even under your thrall," she scoffed.

Hermione's heartbeat increased exponentially. How did she know? Fleur had warned her that it was imperative that absolutely nobody find out about this. What would happen to her now that someone knows? Should she say something? Should she do something? Hermione's mind raced with a never-ending reel of anxious thoughts and questions. Though her body stayed frozen next to the younger blonde who didn't seem as affected by the unexpected declaration. Hermione half expected to be drowning so deeply in thrall. But when that time never came, her heart dropped even further in her chest at the implications of what that might mean.

"Dangerous waters indeed", Fleur's mother began again, "Elle va mourir. And at this rate...vous allez aussi."

She said nothing more. With a wave of her wand and a dramatic turn of her robes, she vanished.

It was only in the elder Delacour's absence that Hermione finally found the ability to speak.

"So, she was," Hermione started to say, drawing out the pause, searching for the right word, "interesting."

"She is something," Fleur responded weakly, closing her eyes as Hermione went back to dabbing the warm rag to her forehead.

"What do we do now?"

"Please, ma bichette. Do not concern yourself with this. I 'ave promised to take care of you and that is what I will do. Despite what my mother thinks, she does not know everything."

Hermione thought on this for a moment. She was tired of Fleur being so cryptic. She was tired of not having a plan. It bothered her greatly that she didn't know when she would be able to leave and whether or not she would make it out alive. So many questions were still left either unanswered or only partially so. She was alive. Fleur was alive. And still, here she found herself again. Anxious and fearful of what she did not know. Her fear burning into anger. That anger boiling beneath the surface into something much worse. If Fleur wouldn't do anything, then she would.

"Fleur," Hermione spoke quietly, gazing down on the very debilitated but still very beautiful Veela.

"Oui?"

"Your mother is right. We have to do something."

**Translations:**

**1) mon rêve = my dream**

**2) mon biquet = my lamb**

**3)** **en permanence = permanently**

**4) Elle va mourir = she will die**

**5) vous allez aussi = you will too**

**6) Qui = who**


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this chapter contains sexually explicit content and as such is 100% NSFW. For those of you who are not into that kind of thing, I apologize profusely. It happens towards the end of the chapter. I would not be hurt should you choose to skip over it. For those of you who are into it, enjoy. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own it. I don't make money off of it.

**Chapter 9**

Fleur Delacour was not easily affronted. She came from a family where everything was discussed. There was no limit to what could be verbally expressed—even if it meant someone got hurt, you spoke what was on your mind. So there wasn't much that could be said that would shock her. But, something about Hermione Granger agreeing with her mother (of all people) that something should be "done" about their relationship was just about the most shocking thing she had ever heard.

She sat there, mouth agape, unsure of how to respond. She had assured Hermione's safety. There was no way Fleur would ever dishonor that commitment. And what her mother was implying—that she just give into her natural Veela nature and ultimately end Hermione's life—she wouldn't make that mistake ever again. She physically couldn't allow herself to.

But how could she express that to Hermione? She had her words but they hardly meant anything in comparison to how she felt. Not to mention she had just been killed and then brought back from the dead. Which was far more physically, emotionally, and mentally draining than most would have you believe. She was in no condition to fight or argue with anyone, much less this woman she wished to protect. But even with all that being true, she still had to try. Why did it have to be so difficult? Her heartbeat increased exponentially. She found breathing was becoming more and more daunting with each second that passed with the words left unsaid.

"'Ermione, you mustn't think—I can't—That's not—Why—"

She fussed and fidgeted about in her best attempt to rid the English witch of any doubt in her ability to protect her from an ill fate. But Hermione would hear none of it. She could see the blond's exhaustion was clearly evident.

"Shhh. Settle down now. Settle down," Hermione soothed, placing a hand to the French witch's chest, pushing her back down to her place on the bed.

Fleur's heartbeat slowed and her incoherent rambling faded to nothing. The more calm she became, the harder her exhaustion hit her until she could hardly keep her eyes from closing any longer. She needed to talk with Hermione. She needed to tell the young witch how she felt and reiterate that she would always be safe under her protection. But now was not the time for that. Now was time for rest and recuperation. She would have her chance. Later.

As Fleur was drifting off to sleep, Hermione crawled into the bed next to her. As if by instinct, the blond's head searched for the comfort of the English woman's chest and she soon nodded off. She was alive. Hermione was alive. That was all that mattered in that moment. That and a deep, much needed sleep.

* * *

Hermione's eyes snapped open. Not because of a noise or any unusual light that had caused her to do so. But because the lack thereof. A pitch black obscurity invaded all the space around her, pervading her senses like a sickness. Not even an inkling of sound could be heard in the depths of the blackness. It was as if she had fallen into a hollow of absolute nothingness.

Where am I? She thought to herself.

She could feel the weight of her body resting on her legs, so she knew she was likely standing. But where was she standing? There was nothing but darkness all around her. A darkness so black that her eyes just couldn't seem to adjust no matter what feeble attempts she made. She moved her legs forward, but the area around her was so devoid of light, she was unable to tell if she was truly moving at all—much less if she were moving in any direction worth going to. Then, miraculously—as if by magic—there was something in the nothing. The sound of light breathing swirled past her ear no louder than a pin drop. Though it was more like a lion's roar in the complete absence of sound.

A hint of excitement bubbled in Hermione's chest. It couldn't have been her own breath because the sound hadn't been in sync with the movement she could feel in her chest. Someone else was here with her.

"Hello?" She spoke out into the vacuum of space, surprised to hear her own voice in the dead silence, "Who's there?"

But no one responded. To Hermione it seemed as if no one was there. No one and someone simultaneously. As much as she could witness, there was still nothing there. However, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. And in a strange way, knowing that certain someone was there brought a type of comfort to her. She felt unusually safe.

This was ridiculous. Why would she be in a place that was nowhere with another being that was nothing. How could she—or anyone else for that matter—exist in a place like that? She was someone. She was something. Her eyes had to be deceiving her. All of her senses had to be deceiving her. Or perhaps she had gone blind and could no longer see the world she perceived around her. Hermione rubbed at her eyes, hoping to adjust them in some way to the void she was in.

The moment they opened, she found that she was no longer standing. And it was no longer dark. Instead she was sitting in a train car looking out through the window into the miles of trees and grass. Though this was not just any train. In a strange, unexplainable way, it felt wildly familiar to her somehow.

Dark grey seats. Pictures of magical creatures hung precisely on the walls. Lamps as old as Dumbledore himself collecting dust above her head. Then the trolley witch passed by the open door with an abundance of sweet goods. Even without sight, she'd recognize the smell of cauldron cakes and pumpkin pasties anywhere. And in that moment, Hermione knew exactly where she was. She was on the Hogwarts Express.

What was happening? Was this a dream? She didn't remember falling asleep. Granted, that doesn't necessarily mean she hadn't. But if this were a dream then surely it wouldn't feel as real as it does. She'd never experienced smells quite as vividly as she was now. In fact, all of her senses were on overdrive in the presence of the old method of school transportation. She certainly hadn't had dreams this vivid before. Hermione was confused. And a little unnerved.

"Do not be afraid, ma foi," a voice spoke softly, coming from an obfuscated figure that had gone unnoticed in the train car until now.

The character was dressed much like the students from Beauxbatons who visited Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament during Hermione's fourth year. She inquisitively searched for any indication as to who this mysterious being was. But the stranger's face was hidden in the shadows of the train car. And their eyes were covered by the classic Beauxbatons school cap.

"Who—" Hermione began to say.

She was cut off by the mysterious figure's sudden movement forward out of the shadows. A new strand of blond hair glimmered with each new beam of light that uncovered it from the shadows. And once the being was fully bathed in light, the cap was removed and a deep pair of ocean blue eyes completed the unfinished portrait laid out before her. Hermione was more than familiar with the face staring back at her. It was the very same one that had been haunting her for weeks now.

"Fleur." She had meant it as a question. An inquiry as to why the blond was here in this surreal dream with her. And in Hermione's mind it was repeated as such. Though it came from her mouth as a statement. As if she expected nothing less of the blonde witch. Which in all honesty, how could she not have seen this coming? Fleur was a Veela. And she had an image to uphold. The two women were always together. So much so lately, that Hermione started to wonder if they would ever be apart.

The blond replied with a radiant smile. So bright and warm, it practically washed away any and all trepidation the English woman felt. And with Fleur sitting there, all dressed up in her school uniform, giving her that look, Hermione couldn't help but smile back.

"Fleur, what are you doing here? What are we doing here? Where is here?" The brunette asked.

The French woman's beautiful smile immediately fell and her face looked pained as if she were fighting with herself internally on how to respond to the onslaught of questions. She was always so careful with Hermione. So careful to say things in a certain way as not to frighten her. So careful in her movements as not to startle her. She always took her time thinking things through before acting on them. This time was no different.

Fleur leant forward in her seat as if she meant to stand, then sat back. Then she leant forward once more, and back again; repeating this same routine multiple times before finally settling on a decision. She stood and moved to the open seat next to Hermione, being sure to graciously tuck her skirt beneath her as she sat. Before the English girl could comprehend what was happening, a small, soft hand rested over her own.

The blond spoke softly, "We are in your mind, Docteur."

Hermione's face fell. Her mind? She was dreaming? About Fleur? This was not a place they should be. Not at all. The brunette sighed as her head dropped to her open hand.

"So now I'm dreaming about you? Great. This can't be a good sign," she muttered more to herself than anything.

"Oh, you are not dreaming, Docteur—I mean, it is technically a dream—you are asleep—'owever I am very much not a dream. I am 'ere and I am real," Fleur took the brunette's hand in her own and slowly brought it to her face as if to solidify her statement.

Dream Fleur or not dream Fleur, real Fleur—whoever she was—was still so unbearably beautiful. Hermione's breath caught in her chest the moment her fingers touched the soft skin. Her eyebrows furrowed as she marveled at how real it felt against her fingertips. It was just like how it had felt in real life; right down to the very burn that set her skin aflame. It practically melted her into a puddle in her seat. She had to be real. And if this was a dream, but Fleur was real, then that could only mean one thing.

"You're a legilimens?" Hermione asked, already rather sure of the answer to her own question. She asked not because she wanted to know if it was true, but because she wanted to understand more about why it was true and what that meant for her. Most dealings she had had with legilimency up to this point were not the most positive of experiences. And she deserved to know sooner rather than later the intentions of the being practicing such an act on her. As enchanting as Fleur may be, the brunette would need to be prepared to remove her from her mind if she wished to bring about any harm.

"Not consciously," the blond responded. Hermione quirked an unsatisfied eyebrow, prompting Fleur to further elaborate, "It is just another product of my Veela 'eritage. We do not consciously practice legilimency. It 'appens naturally when we are called out to by our lovers. I cannot control it. And so...'ere I am."

That was strange. Hermione did not recall ever having called out in any way for Fleur; in this odd-beyond-all-reason dream or otherwise.

"I called out for you?"

"Oui. Your soul—it sings like the most beautiful of songs. Like the sound of a quill dancing across a piece of freshly cut parchment or the sound of pages turning in an old leather-bound book."

Hermione didn't realize her soul had been singing. From the way it was described, it sounded truly beautiful. She wished she could hear it the way Fleur did. If she could hear it—despite the beautiful sound it made—then perhaps she could know when it was happening and try to stop it as not to further torture the poor woman who already struggled so much with her natural instincts.

She looked up to Fleur's bewitchingly serene face. It was always so easy in moments such as these to forget what she was. To forget why it was she was so unattainable. Hermione could no longer ignore her intense attraction to the magnificent blond.

Why did they always have to battle with instinct? Why couldn't they—just for one night—give in to what they were feeling and let the cards fall however they would? Veela heritage be damned. Did it really even matter that the only possible way for it to end was for it to end in death? It could be something so beautiful—so magical. Wouldn't it be worth having something like that if only for a brief moment? The answer was yes—and no. And yes. And no.

Hermione didn't know. Being with Fleur in any way was dangerous. It meant inescapable death. And she would be a fool to so willingly jump into the Veela's web of chaos and fatality. But maybe she was a bigger fool than she'd ever dare to admit.

It was in that moment Hermione became abundantly aware of her hand that was still resting on the French woman's cheek. She was already enamored with the woman. If she let this go on, how much longer would she have to be herself before she was as nothing as the darkness she experienced before? Even if this was a dream, she had to stop whatever this was and she had to stop it now. She couldn't let it get too far or she might not ever be able to return—to her friends; to her family; to the life she had before Fleur. She jerked back quickly as if she had been scalded by a hot iron.

The blond interpreted this sudden reaction as a sign of distress and jumped at the opportunity to further console the girl.

"Mais, you 'ave nothing to fear, ma bichette. I am not 'ere of ill will. I do not wish to intrude or invade this space in any way. I am 'ere simply because you want me to be. I will not 'arm you."

Hermione's immediate thoughts were flooded with an onslaught of random thoughts and unknown questions. Almost as if some remote part of her brain were forcing her to remember the direness of the situation she was in. Fleur was a Veela. And Veela have thrall. That thrall is almost like a drug in the addictive affects it has on a host. Those affects slowly disintegrate the brain until the host is no longer truly living. She had been under the influence of Fleur's thrall—more than once. What stage in this process could she be at that she is unknowingly calling out to Fleur in her dreams? How much longer does she have before she too is no more than an empty shell of a human? Why did Fleur have to be so goddamn beautiful and tempting?

Hermione panicked. She stumbled to get to her feet, tripping over herself repeatedly as she headed for anywhere other than where she was.

"You'll have to excuse me, Fleur. This is a little much to take in at once," she spluttered in her clumsiness.

She exited through the train car door. And as she did, the scene around her changed entirely. Where she expected to see a train hallway was replaced with a scene of one of her most favorite places in all the world. The floating lanterns and candles created just the perfect amount of warmth that one could comfortably nestle into a remote corner of the large room and read without need of a cloak. The smell of old books and leather permeated the air and Hermione had to close her eyes just to be able to handle the intense swell of memories that just being there again stirred.

"The Beauxbatons Library is nothing in comparison to this. I wish I could 'ave studied 'ere instead."

Hermione's eyes snapped open at the ghost-like flow of Fleur's voice and turned around to find the blond still standing only a few meters away.

"How did you know?" Hermione asked the French witch.

"'Ow did I know what, ma douce?"

"That the Hogwarts Library is one of my favorite places to be. Why did you bring me here?"

Fleur raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at the question.

"I did not bring you 'ere, 'ermione. I did not bring you anywhere. This is your mind."

"Then how did we get here? Why are we here?" The brunette scrambled for answers in a place and circumstance that likely didn't have any.

Without drawing too much attention to herself, Fleur slowly started to close the large gap between herself and the brunette.

"This is your mind, ma trésor," each word was punctuated with a small step forward, "If we are at the 'Ogwarts Library, it is because that is where you want to be. Similarly, if I am 'ere, it is because that is what you want. I would not do anything in a place as sacred as this without your permission. You are in complete control."

She spoke slowly and precisely like a lion tamer trying to soothe a wild animal. Hermione surely felt as wild as an animal—or at least her heart was beating with the wild intensity of such. And before she knew it, the distance was almost fully closed between the two women. They were so close, she could feel Fleur's light breaths against her face. She could smell the french woman's intoxicating scent of coconut and vanilla. She could hear a heartbeat—whether it was hers, Fleur's, or both she was unsure—beating loudly between them like the single thread that was holding them there together.

Between the scene around her and her growing attraction to the French woman, Hermione wanted to kiss her—really kiss her—with everything she had. She wanted to do so much more than kiss her. She wanted to touch her—every last square inch of her. She wanted to feel the fire light a path across her skin as Fleur touched her.

It was too much. It was too intense. She couldn't allow such nearness. It would break any and all resolve she had. There had to be a line somewhere. And it couldn't, under any circumstance, be crossed. So, for every step Fleur took forward, Hermione took one step back, hoping to put that distance between them once more. Hoping to keep that line in tact.

But Hermione was running out of space to move. And the deeper she looked into the Veela's eyes, the more passion she saw and the more desire she felt. That line was dwindling the closer they came to touching.

Hermione gave a feeble attempt at stopping it, "Fleur, your thrall. Please. You can't."

But there was no meaning behind her empty words. She would have readily drowned in the French woman if that was what she wished. The brunette trembled in her last ditch effort to save herself.

"My thrall is like a pheromone, ma foi. I am physically unable to use it 'ere...in your mind," Fleur responded, her voice low and sultry, sending delightful chills throughout the English woman's body.

That couldn't be so. It had to be thrall. If not thrall, then what was it that made Hermione feel so compelled to the beautiful French witch.

It was her. It was all her. She wanted Fleur. Regardless of her Veela heritage and the thrall it produced, Hermione Granger wanted Fleur Delacour in all her glory with a burning passion. And knowing that was almost more frightening than falling prey to a Veela.

The English witch continued backing up until the backs of her legs hit a solid object behind her and she could no longer move backwards. In a new way, the blond was able to close that distance between them and she did with a delicate ease unlike Hermione had ever before seen. She felt eager hands curl around her thighs as she was gently lifted onto the table that had blocked them from moving. She almost squealed out in surprise but somehow managed not to. As the older woman squeezed tighter at the sultry flesh in her hands, a shiver raced up Hermione's spine in a lustful torrent of ecstasy.

"If anyone is under the thrall of anyone, mon rêve, it is me," the French witch purred from where she stood between the brunette's legs, "And the thrall belongs to you."

She cupped the young girl's face gently in her hands and rested their foreheads together. Her lip was snatched up in her own teeth and her eyes folded shut at their nearness. Needing that contact. But allowing one last opportunity for the girl to escape if she so wished.

"Fleur," Hermione rasped, her voice almost unrecognizable to her own ears, "I don't understand."

How could she still not understand? What would Fleur have to do to get her to clearly see what was like an elephant in the room right in front of her?

"Mon dieu, 'ermione. Don't you see?! All my life I 'ave been taught that a creature like myself is incapable of love," her words were barely above a whisper though she longed to shout them from a mountaintop, "And yet...'ere I stand before you in flesh and blood—in all that I really am—questioning the credibility of such a claim."

Hermione could barely focus on her words. She was mesmerized by the feel of the blond's hands on her skin and the movement of her succulent lips that looked as if they desperately needed to be kissed. Her heart sank as those very lips soon disappeared down lower out of her line of sight.

"Fleur," Hermione gasped as those lips barely grazed a sensitive spot on her neck, "I don't know what to say."

She was so aroused, she didn't know how she was even able to speak.

"Everything I 'ave done 'as been for the good of my clan. Or for the good of the Delacour name. I have spent my entire life doing what other people wished of me," the French witch whispered against the brunette's neck, "I am 'ere. And I am 'ere because you want me to be 'ere. And I feel this way right now because for one, they are my true feelings and two, it is 'ow you want me to feel in this moment in your mind. That you are controlling. Now, I do not expect you to return any of these feelings...but you must excuse my selfish desire to hold onto mine for as long as possible."

Hermione shuddered. She could feel her wetness soaking through her panties. In an instant, Fleur's lips were tightly pressed to the brunette's—a collision of fire and chaos. It was everything the English witch wanted. Everything she had hoped it would be. Their first real kiss—without the influence of thrall. And she wanted more.

Hermione kissed the veela hungrily, taking everything she could from the woman. Her hands were buried so deeply in the golden locks of hair, they couldn't be seen. Her tongue reached in and out to lick and lap at the roof of the other woman's mouth, only to be sucked in each time it withdrew. It was only after what seemed like an eternity, Fleur broke the kiss, drawing a whimper from the English girl along with it.

"Please," she said in a low, silky voice, "Let me show you, mon trésor," she slipped slowly down Hermione's body; down to her knees, "Let me show you ‘ow I feel."

The brunette stared wide eyed at the French witch, both knowing what was about to happen and equally unsure at the same time.

She should have stopped the blond. But for whatever reason, Hermione couldn't find it in herself to do so. Because thrall or no thrall, she did want this. She wanted her. Great Merlin's beard did she want her.

She watched intently as Fleur's steady hands reached up under the skirt of her school uniform and grasped the band of her panties. She helped the brunette lift her hips so that she could gently slide them down. And as they descended, Hermione's legs trembled in anticipation. The French witch spread them further apart, and the brunette could feel the cool air hitting her incredibly wet and undeniably bare center. She did nothing to stop the loud moan that ripped through her.

Hermione watched. And waited. She wanted to see what the French woman was doing to her. She wanted to see her beautiful face near her most secret of places. She couldn't turn away from the gorgeous sight.

Both of them unconsciously held their breaths as Fleur's face neared Hermione's most intimate of areas. Light breaths tickled at the brunette's opening, teasing her further into a state of arousal. She wished Fleur would do something—anything. She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't go on being so close and not being touched.

After only a few more torturous moments, Fleur ran her flattened tongue over the length of Hermione's wet slit, making the younger woman gasp at the contact. She was immediately hooked. This was the point of no return. She would die for the veela. She would do whatever she wanted. And not because of thrall, but because she genuinely would—that and it felt so damn good. So damn good that when Fleur pulled away—only for but a second—the brunette's hips reached and twisted; desperate for that same contact—vehement for sweet release.

But Fleur was not as ready and willing to give the girl what she desired so easily. She ran her tongue lightly over the pink lips, sucking and nibbling along the way. Her tongue danced up and down Hermione's slit like a ballerina. And when it would dance a path down oh so close to her center, the tongue swirled lasciviously around the brunette's opening, cautiously avoiding any real penetration into the spot where it was needed most.

Arousal leaked from Hermione like the opening of a floodgate. Her eyes were clenched shut. She whined and whimpered with each caress of that soft and steady tongue. She felt as if she were going to implode—burning from the inside out. Then Fleur dipped the tip of her tongue ever so slightly into the brunette's wet and waiting hole. Hermione's breath caught in her chest with a sharp inhale and she groaned heavily in her throat. It was such a wonderful feeling. She wanted more.

But the blonde's tongue withdrew. Hermione whimpered again. She wanted more. She needed more. And then Fleur's magical tongue swirled teasingly around the opening before dipping in only barely entering once more. Hermione gasped. Her hips shot off the table. Her hands clutched desperately to the French woman's hair. With her head lolled back and her mouth hanging open, she was the definition of desire and unbridled lust. Her legs quivered with impatience.

With a smile, Fleur repeated this same routine a few more times. The titillation of her tongue tantalizing Hermione into a frenzy. She knew that in this moment, the girl was hers. And she would do anything and everything in her power to remind her of that fact. Even if it meant she had to tease the orgasm out of her, Hermione would be hers and she would scream only her name if only for awhile. If only for now. Fleur desperately wanted to hear her name spill helplessly from the English woman's lips as she writhed in her most pleasurable release.

So in one long, firm thrust the blond buried her tongue deep inside the girl's warmth, wiggling it against her inner walls; sucking at all the sweet wetness that had gathered there.

"Oh, God!" Hermione cried out. Her hips shot upwards, easily finding a steady rhythm to the ceaseless penetration of the blond's greedy tongue.

Fleur licked and sucked at the brunette with a passion she'd never expressed before. Not a single drop of the girl's wetness could escape. Everything she felt—everything she desired—spilled forth into the pleasure she was giving Hermione. And in return, the English witch sucked all of her in and rode out every carnal feeling being so ceremoniously offered to her.

"Oh! Oh God! Oh. God...Fleur!"

Hermione felt the tight coil bursting in her stomach as she fell over the edge. Wave after wave reverberated throughout her entire body, washing away every feeling she had ever had except for that of pure ecstasy.

She didn't even have time to come down from her high. In an instant, her eyes shot open. She sat up from where she had fallen asleep on the bed—paying no mind to the blond who had been comfortably nestled up against her. That same orgasmic bliss had left remnants all throughout her and she shivered in its presence.

When she finally worked up enough courage, she looked over to her French counterpart and saw two mirth-filled, unapologetic blue eyes staring back at her intently.

What had she done.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still not mine. Still doing it for free. Please don't sue me.

**Chapter 10**

"'Ermione! Please, open up! Please don't go!" Fleur pleaded with a closed door that she was well acquainted with by this point. The familiarity of the situation further fueling her persistence as she banged her fists anxiously against the hard wood. And though this routine was not new to them—given the same scenario had occurred a little over a week prior—she was met with what had become an equally mundane silence.

Hermione slumped to the bathroom floor—ignoring the muffled pleas for entrance. This wasn't the first time she found herself in a position such as this—sitting on a floor, against a door that just so happened to be the only thing barricading her from the object of her wildest desires. But it was the first time she was on the running-away, bathroom-end of it.

Her head dropped heavily to her open hands. She hadn't had the necessary time to process how she felt. She had fallen asleep, some things had happened, and then the next thing she knew, she was awake lying next to the perpetrator of those very things that had happened. Things she very much wanted to happen. But things that should have never happened to begin with. That being so, it wasn't very clear to her in that moment why she had run away. All she knew was that she had crossed a line that wasn't meant to be crossed. And she woke up and those coruscating blue eyes peered into her without even the slightest inkling of shame or remorse. Those eyes—the person behind them—constantly muddled with her brain, making it hard to think. She had made a mistake. A mistake that required deep thought—deep understanding, deliberate planning—given the type of creature she had made it with. In an instant—with or without her approval—Hermione had been on her feet and on the move, urgent to put as much space as she could between them.

That is what she needed in that moment. Distance. A few solitary seconds to breath fresh air that hadn't graced the lungs of the gorgeous blond; to think thoughts that didn't contain images of porcelain skin and a mischievous smile; to feel a heartbeat that she could be absolutely sure was hers and hers alone.

But no matter how she tried, she also knew she would never be able to shake herself free of the sirenic French witch. And now that she had crossed that line, she was irrevocably and unequivocally consumed by all that was Fleur.

And that truly troubled her.

So she sat on the opposite end of that barrier, trying to make sense of things and utterly failing. Perhaps if she repeated it enough, it would eventually stick. Fleur is a Veela. And while she may not mean to, her very nature is detrimental to the human psyche. And while she is very pretty, we mustn't kiss her or even so much as think about kissing her. And while that orgasm was wildly intense and real and soul-shattering—and Gods! The shameful things we would do for just one more little taste—it isn't safe to engage in such things with a Veela. She would repeat this over and over in her head. It would become her new mantra. But thinking about what had happened—in any context—excited her. To the point that she was only mere seconds away from ripping the door open and ravishing the blond woman in ways she'd likely never experienced before—in ways Hermione herself had never experienced before. And had her legs not felt like lead and had her heart not been beating at near heart attack levels, she surely would have. She needed to stop. This had to end. And the truth is, she could keep telling herself that until she was blue in the face and she likely would. But at the end of the day, she knew there would always be more to it than that. There would always be something more to she and Fleur. And it wouldn't just disappear with a well-chosen mantra.

"There are old stories they used to tell us when we were petites filles about L'Appel Du Vide," Hermione's ears perked up at the sound of Fleur's voice that was muffled by the door, "The term literally translates to ‘the call of the void.’ But it means so much more than that. And while there is no real English equivalent, I suppose the best way to describe it is that sudden inclination one 'as to do something no matter 'ow dangereux or deadly it may be."

The French witch paused long enough that Hermione thought she had finished speaking. She opened her mouth to speak, but then Fleur's voice was heard again, sharper and more direct through the solid wood, "All this time, I've only ever seen it from the point of view of the siren. Being that call of the void that lures people to danger. But then I met you, ma belle, and now...I'm beginning to understand what it is like to be on the other end of that call," Fleur's words started to flow out quicker in a higher pitch, as if she were choking back as much emotion as she could manage, "And what 'appened in your mind... Mon Dieu—I wish that I could say that I feel ashamed—that I would take it back if I could—but, ma bichette, I do not feel any of these things. The truth is, I would do it again. A thousand times over. Until the sheer exhaustion of it all killed me. I would even fight my very nature to the death to be with you like that forever if that is what it took. Je suis profondément désolée, 'Ermione, mais I am so incredibly infatuated with you. The consequences mean so little in comparison."

Fleur gripped tightly to the door, speaking her words against the grain of the wood, hoping the brunette had heard them for what they were.

"Fleur..." the blond's head raised at the sound of Hermione's voice that was almost deadened by the obstruction between them, "In the dream—in my mind—you mentioned the word 'love.' And you suggested that you questioned your ability to do so...because of me..."

This was a topic Fleur was hoping the English woman wouldn't remember. It was a topic she had hoped to avoid. Because it was a topic she could not readily explain. There was so much about Veela nature that Hermione didn't fully understand—there was so much about her own nature that Fleur had yet to understand. And just as her head started to fall in defeat once more, the door opened and Hermione's face came into view. Her eyelids looked heavy and her eyes were puffy. There was no distinguishing whether that was a result of crying or from a lack of sleep—though it was most likely the latter. A line appeared between her brows.

"Fleur..." She took a few steps closer, an impetuous swell of bravery controlling her movement, "Are you in love with me?"

The Veela's jaw tightened.

"Laisse tomber. c'est pas grave! That is not important," she blurted—a slight tremble in her voice—as she wandered to the opposite side of the bedroom pretending to busy herself with the mangled sheets and bedspread. Suddenly it was she who felt the need to put space between them.

"It is important, Fleur," Hermione persisted, moving to be closer to the blond, needing that eye contact as they spoke about something as serious a topic as love, "It's important to me. I mean, how do I know if it's really you or the Veela that feels this way?"

"C'est n'importe quoi! They are one in the same—'ow can you not see?! I am the Veela. The Veela is me. Our wants, our dreams, our desires, they are always the same because there is no difference between us!"

Fleur suddenly stepped unnecessarily close to the English witch, grabbing the girl's face in her hands in what appeared to be a desperate attempt to hold onto a reality that had long since vanished. She drew her lower lip between her teeth as her eyes lowered to Hermione's lips. Those same lips that had kissed hers fully a number of times. Those same lips that called out her name in the throws of ecstasy. Those same lips that had just recently all but condemned her of rather monstrous behavior. She stared at those lips wordlessly for a long, uncomfortable moment; her eyes knitted close together in thought. She wondered how something so deliciously tempting could be so undeniably cruel.

"And even if we were two separate entities," she added softly, her eyes never once straying from Hermione's lips, "would that really even matter? The feeling would still be as it was all the same. Love is such a powerful and profound emotion in and of itself, does it really matter all that much who is the bearer of such feelings?"

Hermione was well-versed in many things. She knew the ins and outs of many a muggle as well as magical concepts. But love? Love was a magical creature in itself that was just as equally mysterious and misunderstood and often terrifying as the rest. Sure, she had exchanged desultory "I love you's" with her parents every now and again and Harry had always told her "love you" in a very brotherly fashion. But that would hardly prepare her for the more romantic nature of the word. Ron had said it to her once. Though what had been between them wasn't even remotely close to love. And she had been quick to express her lack of the feeling in return. Ginny had not only told Hermione she loved her, she showed her in so many ways on more than one occasion every day until the day they parted ways. There was even a brief moment where Hermione felt as if maybe she could feel the same way. But even then, it wasn't quite the right feeling to be considered true love and she was left completely lost.

After that, the war and the aftermath of said war took up the majority of her time and energy. Rebuilding a life after having almost been destroyed didn't leave much time for extracurriculars. And while most things came relatively natural to the girl, love was and would always be unattainable. Or at least, that was true of the kind of love she had always been taught about growing up with muggle fairy tails. But this—what she had with Fleur—wasn't anything like a muggle fairytale. Or rather, unlike any fairytale she had ever heard before.

So while Hermione would normally run from the feelings behind such a bold declaration—having no real understanding of them and having had no real time to become practiced in experiencing them—she, oddly enough, found herself empowered by Fleur's declaration. Perhaps it was the Veela charm or perhaps it was something more. Either way, she was sure she had never felt this way before and she was curious to further explore this territory that had so long gone uncharted. She watched Fleur, watching her.

"I suppose I'm still so unsure as to whether what I feel is my own genuine feelings or a rather fortuitous side effect of you and what you are," she whispered, not really considering the effects of her words.

It hurt the French witch to hear it. That her thrall might be the only reason someone cared for her. But it didn't surprise her. This was the life she had always known. Still, that didn't make it hurt any less. She turned her head away sharply as her eyes squeezed shut, so that Hermione's next words were spoken to her cheek instead.

"I don't know why I feel the way I do, but that won't stop me from feeling it. I very much care about you, Mademoiselle Delacour. I care about you more deeply than perhaps I should and that concerns me—but not for the reasons you may think. And regardless of why I feel the way I do, I want you to know that I'm not going to fight it. It is so unlike anything I've ever felt before, and it scares me. But I want it. I want more of it."

Hermione began to trail light but lingering kisses down the woman's cheek. The gesture was meant as a symbol of sympathy. It quickly grew into a symptom of empathy. And for the briefest moment they were finally able to recognize one another's mutual affliction. Not one to deny the English woman anything, Fleur slowly turned her head until the kisses trailed a path to her own lips, remembering the healing power they held within and hoping to alleviate some of the agony brewing in the air where the two witches stood. And when their lips finally met with that first sweet but sultry kiss, it was as if all the apprehension had been washed away from them like the scrubbing of the tides.

That was until a shrill, frustrated scream sounded throughout the room, startling the two women apart. Both of them knew it couldn't have come from them given the preoccupation of their mouths. So they looked about the room for the source of the intrusive noise.

A painting—that normally only contained the scenery of an old oak tree beside a serene lake—now contained an overly-emotional woman. She was pacing back and forth with an undisclosed fury. Her elegant green dress whipped around violently with the motion of her body as she stomped and huffed around the tree. Hermione didn't recall ever having seen her before in this particular painting in Fleur's bedroom. And judging by the mystified look on the French witch's face, she too was perplexed by the lady's presence.

"Who is that?" Hermione wondered aloud, not particularly searching for an answer.

"The comtesse d'Houdetot. A distant relative of the Delacours," Fleur replied, "Though she usually resides in the painting in maman's study..."

Both women were entranced by the fitful comtesse, who continued to curse and protest, obviously in some sort of distress. A few times it seemed as if she were about to slip into the lake, though she never quite took the plunge. Fleur thought it might be for the best if she did. Perhaps it would help to cool her temper. But Hermione, in worry of the lady's safety, stepped away from the Veela and towards the painting.

"What's wrong?" She asked the lady, with the hopes that, at the very least, it would distract her enough to keep her from accidentally harming herself.

"What's wrong?! What is wrong?!" the comtesse shrieked, reaching vocal levels not too far off from that of a freshly opened howler, "I will tell you what's wrong! Every time that disgraceful woman 'as 'er secret little meetings, she flips my portrait around. The nerve! Flipping my portrait—MY portrait! Me! A Comtesse! Thinking she is above me, flipping my portrait, throwing out commands at people like a barbarian, talking about la guerre as if she controlled the world around 'er..."

The lady continued to ramble on in her outrage. But one thing she had said in particular stood out to the French witch.

"Pardon, Comtesse," Fleur interrupted, hoping to garner the lady's attention, "You mentioned that they were talking about 'the war.' What exactly did you 'ear?"

The Comtesse flipped her hand impatiently at them, not much in the mood for sharing, only complying because she desired an easy outlet for her discontent.

"Something about a rival clan not following the original command to kill 'the girl.' And 'ow the war must continue or something like that..."

She spoke more, but it was all incomprehensible due to her anger.

Recognition dawned on Hermione's face.

"Fleur, you don't think..." she started to say.

"That someone is purposely causing the war between Veela clans?" Fleur's face hardened.

"Is that even possible?" The English witch questioned.

"Oui, it is every bit as possible as it is probable."

"Who would do such a thing?"

The question was asked, but the answer was already well known. There was only one person with the authority and the resources to be able to pit entire Veela clans against one another, according to their hierarchy of command. And Fleur was certain the Grand Matriarch was behind this. Not that she had ever had much trust invested in the great leader.

The real question was why? Fleur knew the Grand Matriarch to be well-informed and wildly cunning. Any and every move she made was always highly meticulous and not without purpose. But what purpose did it serve for all Veela clans to be at war? Especially when the real fight was in the creature wars against the entire wizarding world. What could one possibly gain by the destruction of one's own people. And furthermore, who was supposed to have been sacrificed for the purpose of this civil unrest? Fleur's pupils flared.

"There’s only one way to find out," the French witch said with a hint of an edge. And before Hermione could even react, the blond took off down the hall.

The brunette followed after her, every bit as curious to understand what was happening. But the Veela was on a mission and keeping up with her was quickly becoming harder and harder to do through the maze-like hallways of the grand mansion.

Just as the English woman was sure she was about to lose her, Fleur came to a sudden stop in front of the door to her mother's study. There were muffled voices on the other side that grew progressively louder over the short time they had stood there. And as Fleur raised her hand to knock, the door swung open. The Grand Matriarch stepped out first—as originally suspected—followed shortly by another figure.

"Maman?!" Fleur called out in confusion.

* * *

**Translations:**

**1.** **petites filles = little girls**

**2\. Je suis profondément désolée = I am deeply sorry**

**3\. Laisse tomber. c'est pas grave = Just forget it. It doesn't matter!**

**4\. C'est n'importe quoi = That's nonsense!**

**5\. la guerre = the war**

**6\. Pardon = excuse me**


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a love hate relationship with this chapter, but ultimately it will stay because it's important to the story and character development. I may come back and edit it more, but I'm not sure. Please please please let me know if I butchered any French. I did as much research as I could to try not to, but mistakes happen and I would like to correct them.
> 
> Disclaimer: Same old, same old.

**Chapter 11**

We can all agree that the human brain is extremely powerful. It is a fine-tuned machine capable of 1,016 processes per second.

The Veela brain is similar being only a fraction more powerful than a human's and capable of 1,018 processes per second. This means that the time it takes for a certain image to be perceived by the eye, travel to the brain, and then interpreted by the Veela mind is roughly 12 milliseconds. And while it is true that a part of this processing power requires that the brain continue to compile those images for longer than 12 milliseconds, in most healthy brains, the time it takes for an image to be fully pieced together is still incredibly fast—on the order of seconds at the most.

But despite the immense power of her incredibly complex and well-built brain, Fleur Delacour could not fully compute what she had just witnessed. She had been standing there for a solid 30 minutes; mouth agape, eyes wide and boring into the very spot where her mother and the Grand Matriarch had just been. The image of her mother leaving the room with the woman that had only recently been discovered to be a traitor to the very Veela people she had been leading this entire time played in repeat in her mind's eye. As if her brain were desperately trying to process such an image, but wasn't physically capable of such a thing, rejecting it and trying to reprocess it in a never-ending loop cycling viciously to its immanent malfunction.

Hermione had long since interpreted the significance of those events and began to grow worried by her French counterpart's lack of response. She had been trying to garner her attention for the better part of 20 minutes, having thus far been wildly unsuccessful.

"Fleur?" She tried repeatedly. But try as she might, no amount of talking, shaking, or arm waving would break the blond from whatever spell she was under.

Hermione also understood that this was a delicate situation. She could only imagine how betrayed and hurt the other woman must have felt after learning everything she knew to be a lie; after discovering the people she trusted most were untrustworthy. It seemed reasonable for someone who was going through something like that to need a little time to sort it all out in their head. So the fact that she wasn't receiving any response from the stoic blond wasn't as much a worry as one might presume. The biggest part of what caused her so much concern was the large amount of suspicion that could be drawn of the two of them standing outside The Elder Delacour's study as if they'd just uncovered the most secret of secrets. Of which they undoubtedly did, but everyone else didn't need to know that.

And while she did not fully understand Veela politics, it was most certain that they shouldn't reveal that they knew as much as they did about the Grand Matriarch's plans. Hermione wasn't super familiar with the clan leader, but she had experienced the woman's presence enough to deduce that the Elder wouldn't let anyone or anything get in the way of her getting what she wanted. And clearly she wanted all the Veela to be at arms. Not to mention, the other Veela that were out and about, meandering the hallways staring inquisitively as they passed. Surely they would soon grow suspicious and start to talk. Hermione needed to do something and fast.

So, without a second thought, she cupped the back of Fleur's neck and pulled her into a searing kiss with the hopes that it would at the very least distract her enough to move. It took a few moments, but soon enough the older woman reciprocated. Once the brunette had Fleur's utmost attention, she pushed the woman backwards into the recently unoccupied study. With a nudge of her foot, she made quick work of closing the door behind them and as soon as it clicked shut, she pushed the Veela roughly up against it. And by the very nature of this action, their kissing intensified. It was a marvelous kiss; all tongue and teeth. However now was not the time nor the place. Hermione needed to stop this before it went too far—because it was quickly growing into "too far" territory. And so, she disconnected their lips and attempted to push herself away from the hungry Veela.

"Fleur. We need to talk about this," she said breathily.

But the French woman had other things in mind. Recognizing her lover's restraint, a dark, animalistic door snapped open inside of Fleur. The smoky haze of her thrall oozed out and around the unsuspecting English girl, muddling her brain with nothing but want and desire. And Hermione was violently aware of its presence.

"Fleur. No—" Hermione tried with everything she had in her to fight the allure. Which was easier said than done.

"Pourquoi pas," the French woman finally spoke. Her lips close enough to gently feather the brunette's.

"Because. Well. Because—" the poor English girl stuttered. Each breath puffed onto her lips causing the thrall and desire to settle in further. It wouldn't be too much longer and the fog would be too thick and she would be fully tangled in the wicked Veela's web.

But she wanted to be caught and completely enmeshed in everything that was the blond witch. She was hers. And Fleur was hers. And nothing else really mattered outside of that. How could she turn this woman away after knowing exactly how her fingers would feel on her skin? After knowing how her lips tasted on her mouth? After knowing how good the woman could make her feel? But what about freedom? What about Madam Delacour and the Grand Matriarch? The other Veela. They are in trouble.

"No!" She cried out, pushing the blond away from her with as much force as possible and running off to the other side of the room.

Hermione's breath was short as much from running as it was from the overwhelming feelings brought on by the thrall. One of her hands clutched to her chest as if it would help the air flow more freely through her lungs. Not that it really helped. Her chest felt like it could start caving in on itself at any moment.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the French woman inch forward. With as much energy as she could muster, Hermione snapped her wand out before her. There was nothing but the sound of heavy breathing and wood wisping through the air as it came into place.

"Don't move," she warned with bated breath, "I don't want to hurt you, Fleur. But make no mistake, I will if need be."

The blond stopped in her tracks. And even in the haze of her own unbounded instincts, Fleur could easily recognize the validity of such a threat. From behind her hair, the English girl was clearly unrestrained. But she didn't look scared. The girl demanded space. And she would have it. The distance allowed them the time they needed to cool down and gather themselves. A few minutes passed that seemed like an eternity. But eventually, the thrall had completely died down, composure was found, and all breathing was back to normal.

"What was that?" Hermione asked. Her shoulders fell though her wand was still poised before her.

"I am so sorry, ma belle. I did not mean to use the thrall. It just 'appens and—" Fleur began as she plopped down in a nearby armchair.

"No. That I understand. What was that with the Grand Matriarch and your mother?" She clarified, lowering her wand and walking back over towards the blond.

How could Fleur even begin to answer this question? She hadn't even figured it out for herself yet.

"Je ne sais pas, Doctuere."

The blonde woman's sudden formality was not lost on Hermione. Given the lack thereof up until this point, the English woman could easily deduce that something was nagging at the other woman.

"Fleur, I know this might be hard for you to believe but..." the brunette began cautiously, taking time to form each word, "I think the Grand Matriarch is purposely pitting the Veela against each other and I think your mother is helping. Or at the very least she knows about it."

The french woman's eyes narrowed. The light that was usually found there had suddenly vanished beneath a thin film of tears that were being held captive with the threat to escape. Her perfectly manicured finger tips drummed rhythmically against the tight leather of the chair arm; the dangerous pitter patter lulling her English counterpart into a false sense of insecurity. It wasn't as if the thought hadn't crossed Fleur's mind. It had been the one thing playing on repeat in her mind since the moment she witnessed it happening. But something about the words being spoken out loud had grated at her—had made it so much more real than it was before.

When it became evident that the blond woman wasn't going to respond, Hermione stepped towards her and intertwined the busy fingers in her own in attempt to redirect the focus back to the matter at hand.

After a few moments of complete silence, Fleur finally spoke.

"I'm not saying I do or do not agree with you about my mother. And I am not saying that her betrayal is not painful. But we 'ave a bigger problem than that. My people's lives are at risk. We 'ave to do something to 'elp them."

The English woman didn't know how to respond. This wasn't her home. These weren't her people. This was a different culture with different rules and customs. Many of which she still remained ignorant to. And the blond before her looked as if she could shatter at any moment. One wrong word and there's no telling what would happen. She had no right to speak on behalf of these people and what was right or wrong for them. What would she even say if she did?

The faint sound of laughter and talking could be heard through the old oak door. Suddenly struck by a thought, Fleur raised a perfectly shaped brow. Her eyes darted back and forth wildly around the room as if she were uncertain as to where she was or how she got there. She immediately stood from where she was sitting and grabbed Hermione tightly by the hand.

"We must go. Immédiatement," she whisked, already pulling the girl halfway out the door and down the hall.

When they neared the French woman's bedroom, Hermione's heart started beating even faster. With the amount of passion the blond was displaying, the English girl half-expected to be thrown down to the bed as soon as they entered. Instead she was released. And Fleur immediately turned and cast the imperturbable charm on the room so that no one could listen in to whatever was to be said.

When she turned back around to Hermione, a certain fire was simmering in her eyes that made the brunette's breath catch in her throat as it burned a path straight through her.

"I 'ave an idea of what to do—" she started to say, but stopped at the sound of a toilet flushing in the near distance.

Both women looked to the bathroom door as it opened.

"Soeur! Te voilà!" Gabrielle exclaimed as she exited the restroom, "Excusez-moi. I 'ave been trying to find you all morning to discuss what you are wearing to the Delacour Tempêtes de la Nuit grande ball, and I came to your room mais you were not 'ere, so I decided to wait for your return and 'ad to use the restroom during my wait."

"I do not think now is a very good time, petit lapin," Fleur said softly to her sister.

"N'importe quoi! It is always a good time to talk about dresses, non? Now, Maixent is going to wear a light blue tie with a grey vest. Should I wear a blue dress or a grey dress to match?" The younger Delacour continued.

"Pour de vrai? Gabrielle, 'ow many times 'ave I told you? It isn't right for you to so brazenly embrace your Veela nature. It isn't fair to the poor boy 'hoo can't defend or protect 'imself from you."

"Tout le monde doit mourir un jour, Soeur. At least with me, 'e will 'ave the opportunity to do so feeling the 'appiest 'e 'as ever felt," the younger blond replied with a bright smile on her face.

"Last time I checked, dying was not a 'appy experience, Gabrielle."

"It can be when all you feel when experiencing it is love and compassion and bliss. And I 'ave been extra careful to assure that is all they feel every minute they are with me."

"Depuis quand? 'Ow can you—" Fleur cut herself off before finishing her original thought, "Non. I do not 'ave time to discuss this with you right now. Doctuere Granger and I need un moment of privacy," Fleur said, shuffling her sister towards the door.

"Oh. Je vois. You and your lady love need some time," she replied with numerous winks, "I completely understand."

"Ugh. File!" The elder Delacour commanded, pushing her sister out the door and closing it in her face.

"I apologize, 'ermione, I do not understand why she still 'as to be that way," Fleur said exasperatedly as she leaned heavily against the door.

"It's just a little teasing, Fleur. All siblings do it—"

"Non, not that," the woman said as she walked over and sat next to Hermione on the bed, "I was talking about 'er arrangement with Maixent. I 'ave told her so many times she does not 'ave to be this way. We can control this. She doesn't 'ave to be a life-taking monster. Mais, she never listens to me."

The English woman took a deep breath. She felt as if she'd been silent on the matter for too long. It all but exploded out if her at an ever-increasing pace.

"You know, Fleur," she began, "giving into your instinctual nature doesn't make you a bad person or a monster—"

"'Ow can you sit there and say such a thing when that is precisely 'ow you see me? As a monster?!"

"I've never said I saw you as a monster. You've always called yourself that. I see you as different because you are—from me at least. But never a monster. And I certainly don't see your sister that way either. Gabrielle has been so kind and sweet to me. And she knows about you and how you put my life above your instincts. And she supports you in that and not only respects, but protects your wishes that I remain unharmed. I'm all for working and fighting for change when you believe something is wrong or harmful, but...I also think it's unfair to call her names and attack her when she is only doing what is expected of her. Something she was raised to do and believe. You can't just expect someone to change simply because you want them to. You have to give them a good reason to do so. It's not enough to just tell someone to be different or think differently. You have to show them why and how through your actions every day until they understand the message. But their life is not yours to dictate. Just as yours is not theirs to dictate. You want to be a guide and a teacher, that's something else entirely. But you can't stop someone from being who they are comfortable being just by sheer force. And so far, you have all these thoughts and ideas about how a Veela should be and act, but what have you really done to act on them? Who have you shown—besides me—that there is another way to live as a Veela?"

"Now, that's not fair. Both my mother and Gabrielle know and have seen that side of me numerous times before."

"Yeah. But look at us now. We have been lying for weeks to your entire clan to get them to believe that I am nothing more than your play thing and that you are going to rid yourself of me soon. How is that change, Fleur? How is that any better than giving into your natural instinct? And most importantly, how does that make you any better a person than Gabrielle for not doing so? You want change? You have to be it."

The French woman's head dropped with the weight of her shame. Hermione continued.

"And. On top of that, you have no room to sit there and call Gabrielle a monster. You have no right to call yourself a monster. Because you don't really know what that is. And until you realize how wrongly you are approaching this entire thing, nothing will change like you so fervently wish it would. Using negativity to combat a negative situation will never breed a positive outcome—except in maths. But one could argue that, while adequate for many things, maths is not so useful in the understanding of a being's emotions."

Hermione stopped talking, feeling as if she had rambled on enough. She couldn't tell by the blond's absolute silence if she had actually gotten through to the older woman or not. But she remained hopeful that at least some of what she had said did.

After a moment more of silence, Fleur slowly raised her head until she was staring deeply into the English witch's eyes.

"I know what I need to do to stop the Grand Matriarch."

* * *

**Translations:**

1) Pourquoi pas — why not?

2) Je ne sais pas — I don't know

3) Soeur — sister

4) Te voilà! — There you are

5) Excusez-moi — Excuse me

6) petit lapin — little rabbit

7) N'importe quoi — whatever

8) Pour de vrai — for real?

9) Tout le monde doit mourir un jour — everyone must die one day

10) Depuis quand — since when?

11) Je vois — I see

12) File! — Get out!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of character building in this chapter. The next chapter is where the fun begins. As always, thanks for reading. And enjoy. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do this only for my own amusement

**Chapter 12**

This night would mark the 100th anniversary of the Delacour Tempêtes de la Nuit grande ball. One of the most lavish events of the year; known far and wide to have forged relationships and unite Veela clans under the umbrella of fellowship and camaraderie. There would be expensive designer-made dresses and wines that would easily exceed the cost of one such dress. There would be dancing in ritzy 4-inch heels and drunken laughter that would get waved off with the flippancy of a well-manicured hand. Speeches would be made and glasses would collide in recognition of all the Veela had accomplished that year together with the promises of how they would do better and become closer in the next. This would be a night to celebrate. This would be a night to remember. Because this would be the night that the Matriarch to the Delacours would be challenged to the death.

A storm was rapidly approaching, and with each passing minute, it became more and more evident that someone wouldn't be making it out alive.

Had Hermione had any real say in the matter, she wouldn't have resorted to death. But she also wasn't going to even pretend to understand the intricacies of Veela culture. As barbaric as challenging someone to the death may have seemed at the time Fleur first proposed it to her, the English witch quickly came to recognize the complete lack of reasonable alternative solutions.

The ultimate goal was to stop the Grand Matriarch—which was no easy feat. They couldn't just snoop around in the shadows, the two of them, and quietly relieve the powerful woman of her reign. Not without getting caught. And they most certainly couldn't just up and challenge her directly. She would be far too powerful an opponent. This wasn't just some random Veela underdog. This was a highly regarded figure among a number of Veela clans—who very clearly had no issue whatsoever with disposing of those who got in her way. And being in the position she was in, she possessed one of the greatest securities a leader could have: the loyalty of her people. That was where her power lies. In the loyalty of her followers. Which would be too monumental of an obstacle for just two rather insignificant-in-the-grand-scheme-of-things people. For the blonde's claims about the Grand Matriarch to be taken seriously, she too would have to be in a position of power. She would need even a fraction of the loyalty that the Grand Matriarch had. But the young blond Veela was no fool. Even the simplest of minds knew that just the slightest attempt to steal away the peoples' loyalty from a reigning monarch would be considered a challenge. It would be an act of treason. Fleur would need an army.

While the Grand Matriarch was still—and for the time being would remain—unattainable, Hermione would never forget the look in the young Veela's eyes as she said with firm resoluteness that she would challenge her own Matriarch to the death. It was the look of someone that knew they were about to lose something; something precious—though it wasn't clear what exactly that might be. Innocence? Life? A heart? Because more often than not, a person can't possibly realize they've lost something until it's gone. A sad fact of life that hung listlessly in the woman's decisive stare.

It's unfortunate that she would have to lose whatever it was at the gala in front of all of her family and friends. But she had insisted that a challenge would not be a challenge if it was not done in this way—for all to witness.

They had a plan. It wasn't ideal and it would most certainly have consequences. But it was a plan. And that was far more than they had had the day before. Be that as it may, there was still one glaringly loud thought that had been nagging at the forefront of Hermione's mind.

"I'm not sure I understand what my role is in all of this. I don't understand how any of this is going to solve our other issue—the issue that everyone around us has been so presumptuously hell-bent about bringing up the last few weeks—about you and me and mating," she had said earlier that afternoon as they lounged around lazily in bed and hashed out the details of their plans for that evening.

Fleur sat up from her spot in order to better look at the other woman as she spoke. Blue eyes burned into brown with the innate desire to brand them into memory, "Ma foi, but of course this affects you. You 'ave to look at it this way. As it stands, the current Matriarch makes and up'olds the rules within the clan. It is because of this and my fear for your safety that I 'ave not been able to release you. But if I am Matriarch then I will make and up'old my own rules. Don't you see? You could finally go if I willed it to be so. And I could assure that you would be protected."

Hermione looked off to another part of the room, unable to endure the intensity of those eyes any longer.

"But from what you say, I don't think the other Veela will be too fond of that idea regardless of your standing in the clan. What if one of them wishes to challenge you?"

Fleur sighed.

"It is very rare that a challenge occurs in our clans, 'ermione. For the most part, the majority of the Veela accept the Matriarch's rules as is. The worst they would do is talk behind my back. Our current Matriarch 'as made questionable calls that weren't favorable to us all and no one 'as challenged 'er yet."

The English witch wanted to remind the woman that she herself was going to challenge her in only a few short hours. But the argument died on her tongue the minute Fleur stood up from the bed and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Besides," she continued, her head held high with importance, "if I were to win tonight, that would mean that I single-'andedly defeated the most powerful Veela in our clan. If I can defeat 'er, then I can defeat any of the rest. Let them try."

The way Fleur spoke reminded Hermione of a different magical creature she remembered reading about in her copy of _The Monster Book of Monsters_. And while she couldn't recall the name of the creature, the blonde's behavior was synonymous with that of the lower-ranking female in that society preparing to overthrow the highest-ranking female; with her mouth closed, ears cocked, and mane erect, unwilling to continue to tuck her tail between her legs any longer. It served as one more reminder that while the Veela appeared human in form, there was a raw, animalistic side to them that could not go unnoticed. No argument would win in this situation. It would likely even remain unheard.

"I hope, for your sake, that you are right. I would hate to see you die because of me."

"'Ermione, it does not matter one way or the other. I will die if I do, I will die if I don't," the French woman huffed as she walked off to the bathroom to ready herself for the evening, leaving the brunette and the argument behind on the disheveled bedspread.

It wasn't entirely clear what Fleur meant. Did she mean that everyone dies in the end no matter what? Or was she still talking about the consequences of not mating with Hermione to her inevitable death? Or perhaps she had been talking in regards to her own feelings about potentially losing Hermione. So many possible interpretations, none of which had any comfort in them. And that genuinely disturbed the English witch. Because it meant so much more than its face value. And no matter which way it was interpreted, she knew that the truth would always be there on the cusp of swallowing them both whole until they finally drowned in their own denial of it.

* * *

Hermione stood unnecessarily close to the mirror. Her mouth opened wide—with the involuntary belief that the action would somehow stretch her eyes more than they normally stretched—as she applied a fresh coat of dark mascara to her long lashes.

"I do not understand why you do not just use magic to charm the brushes to do that for you," Fleur said with an air of disbelief and haughtiness only becoming of a magical French heiress. The words cutting through the silence in the room like a knife through melted butter as her fingers tapped rhythmically against the leather arm of the chair in which she was impatiently seated.

Having become used to the blonde's frequent confrontational attitude towards most things, the brunette remained calm in light of a comment that was most certainly intended to rile her up.

"Perhaps some of us do not wish to be so dependent on magic for every little need that it makes us lose touch with who we are without it," she returned casually with a few exaggerated blinks to the mirror in order to help the mascara better settle.

An incredulous huff was released from a perfectly shaped nose.

"Per'aps some of us 'ave control issues and therefore 'ave a misplaced distrust in objects coming so close to our face without being guided by our own 'and," the French witch fired back quickly with an indirect bite that was meant to be anything but.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"You certainly seem sure enough for someone who was at one point so 'unsure' as to why it was I did a particular thing. If you were so sure you knew the answer, then why did you even ask?" She questioned. But the moment she saw the blonde's reflection in the mirror, she felt the words cut back at her with a surprised intensity like the sting of falling on your own sword.

Blue eyes stared at absolutely nothing in particular, widened and dilated beneath down-turned eyebrows. One of her legs bounced so uncontrollably it sent a steady stream of vibrations throughout the chair. Both their wands rattled wildly on the glass side table from where it and the chair touched. The sound of which suddenly overpowered that of the woman's still drumming fingertips. Those same eyes quickly jumped to meet brown ones in the mirror.

In that moment, Hermione knew exactly why the blond had asked. The prim and proper, always-held-together by the strings of poise and confidence, Fleur Delacour, was feeling anxious. A stark contrast to how dauntless the woman was behaving earlier. She had been around the French witch long enough to know that when entrapped by any unwanted feeling, the woman was the queen of deflection; as if doing so would somehow ease the disarray of everything happening inside her.

She's one to talk about 'control issues.' Hermione thought to herself, trying as hard as she could to hold back a small smirk at the irony of her blonde counterpart. And yet, unable to actually do so because of the revelation that they were strikingly similar in that way.

Hermione could not fully say she understood the French witch. Fleur was a highly complicated individual comprised mostly of what could only be perceived as good intentions mixed with utter chaos. Not to mention, she came from a world with its own economy and politics that often left the brunette feeling as lost as a muggle who has newly discovered the magical world. So while she didn't fully understand, she could fully empathize. She knew what it was like to be one of the only ones with a knowledge of the darkness that can lurk beneath the surface. She knew what it was like to be one of the only ones with the power to stop it. How hard it is to carry that burden. How stressful it is to make those choices, unknowing as to how it will truly end. The constant second-guessing of whether or not your choices will save the ones you love or hurt them further eating away at every nerve in your body until you no longer feel whole. That feeling as if you will never truly feel whole again.

Fleur was a master at hiding many things, but she couldn't put a mask on that. No matter what she tried, Hermione would always see right through it with one look into those telling eyes. Because she had experienced the same. And misery always recognizes misery.

The brunette walked over and entwined Fleur's drumming fingers with her own. The persistent rattling of the wands ceased. The silence washing over them as they both looked down at their interlocked fingers. And though the action had subdued the incessant tapping and though the woman's nearness had vanquished the violent shaking of a restless leg, a nervous energy still hung thick in the air around them.

"I understand that you are a little on edge, but that is no reason to get cross with me. I am not the enemy here, Fleur," Hermione reminded calmly, yet firmly.

All the tension suddenly dropped from the French woman's body like the shedding of a heavy winter coat.

"Oui, je sais. I know. Je suis vraiment désolée, ma foi," the French woman sighed. Her arms slipped around the other woman's waist with a natural comfort neither of them were ready to fully acknowledge just yet.

"It's quite alright, my dear," Hermione said as her fingers stroked gingerly through blonde tresses, "I wish that there was something I could do to ease this burden on you. For I know better than most that knowledge is one of the heaviest ones to bear."

Fleur's next words were spoken into the fabric of the English woman's dress, "I am just so worried for my people. What if the choice I 'ave made for them is not the right choice?"

Hermione's hand rested on the blonde's cheek and pulled the woman's gaze to meet her own.

"You know, I've spent a large portion of my life asking that same question. And you know what I discovered?"

Fleur shook her head gently, her eyes never leaving the wise admiration she found in those which held hers captive.

"I discovered that in situations like these, there is no right or wrong choice. There is just _a_ choice. You could just as easily forget everything you've heard and go on about your life as if none of this were happening. And people could end up hurt or dead by the end of it just as much as they could if you had chosen to stand and fight against the injustice. You can't know how things will end. The choices you make in this moment are nothing more than a path you chose to go down. The ending could be the same or it could not. The important part is did do do what you wanted to? Did you do what you felt was right?"

"Ah, yes. L'enfer est plein de bonnes volontés ou désirs," the blond sighed.

Hermione's head cocked to the side cutely.

"I'm sorry?"

"A quote by muggle Saint Bernard of Clairvaux. It means, ''ell is full of good wishes or desires.'"

The brunette's eyes widened in understanding.

"Oh. So much like the English saying, 'the road to hell is paved with good intentions'?"

"Ah, oui. I believe ‘e was the originator of such a phrase," The Veela hummed delicately, a flicker of something dancing in her eyes.

And while Hermione was thouroughly distracted by her curiousity to learn more about the origins of the famed aphorism. And while she found the French woman’s unforeseen knowledge of things outside of the magical world rather titillating and wished to explore it further, now was not the time or place for that. She pushed herself, however reluctantly, to remained focused on her earlier argument instead.

"That very well may be, Fleur. But at the end of the day, we are not Gods or omnipresent beings that control the fate of life as we know it. All we have are good intentions. You're putting a weight on yourself that isn't yours to bear. The weight of fate. What will become of your people if you sit here in this room mulling over whether or not your choices will cause them harm? Choosing the fate of others is not and will never be your responsibility. You have to stop acting like it is because it's interfering with your ability to act. And right now, no matter which choice you make, that's exactly what you need to do. One way or the other."

The French woman's mouth curved into a smile slowly with the gentleness like that of a low tide washing over a beach. The corner of her eyes crinkled.

"It is not a surprise they call you the brightest witch of your age, n'est-ce pas?"

Hermione's nose wrinkled at the overused moniker. An action the blond found to be so extraordinarily charming it caused her smile to widen even further.

"It’s a wonder they don’t call you the very same," Hermione replied with a breathy chuckle. She offered her hand out to the beauty before her. "Are you ready to go?"

Fleur grabbed the proffered hand.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she replied, using the weight of the other woman to lift herself from the chair; their hands refusing to part as they made to exit the bedroom.

The darkness watched them from every corner, waiting to consume what was left of the lingering light that filtered in from the hallway. When the door clicked shut, and darkness had finally spread, the air grew thick in pursuance of the oncoming storm. Tonight would be a night to remember.


End file.
